


Redhead Attempt

by kurgaya



Category: Bleach, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Shinigami, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Pre-Book(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting in Professor Dumbledore’s grand office with the portraits of the former Headmasters and mistresses arguing across the far wall and Fawkes singing Chopin’s 'Funeral March' in the corner, Ichigo has to question the sanity of the British Wizarding World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Professor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aceidia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aceidia/gifts), [Slowly_Falling_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slowly_Falling_Sun/gifts), [Ammar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammar/gifts), [Yemi_Hikari](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Yemi_Hikari).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: I suggest that you be familiar with both fandoms before reading this story as it focuses on the Bleach characters. This crossover is also a Bleach AU, yes, so there are no Shinigami, Hollow, Quincy etc. but understanding who everyone is will help immensely.
> 
> I had an entire list of things I was going to work on over NaNoWriMo.
> 
> Then this happened.

Professor Dumbledore is kind, if not a little odd, but then since most of the people Ichigo knows would fall under that category, he’s sure they will get along fine.

Still, his overly fond smiles and hand gestures – seriously, what’s with all the  _patting_? – are slightly disconcerting, but wizards are an odd bunch anyway, and Ichigo has met stranger people before. Professor Dumbledore is probably one of the most powerful and successful wizards that Ichigo has ever had the chance to talk to, however, and even though respectable manners just aren’t really a Shiba family trait, he is awed to be working for such a phenomenal man.

This feeling lasts until the ancient Headmaster waves a bowl of lemon drops under his nose and  _giggles_  at Ichigo’s uncertain expression.

“Don’t you want one, my dear boy?” Professor Dumbledore asks. Something in his eyes sparkles, but it’s probably just a reflection of the light from his glasses.

“Err,” says the Japanese wizard, thrown off by the  _dear boy_  comment. He hasn’t been anyone’s  _boy_  since he was  _nine_ , and he’s twenty-five now, making his own way through the world. “No thanks.”

The elder man looks disappointed, although the sour sweet does make his intended expression debatable.

Ichigo isn’t sure what to do with that information. Actually, the entire situation has a surreal feel to it – like Apparition lessons except longer lasting and inescapable. He’s here to take up an empty job position and earn his title as a professor, but sitting in Professor Dumbledore’s grand office with the portraits of the former Headmasters and mistresses arguing across the far wall and Fawkes singing Chopin’s  _Funeral March_  in the corner, Ichigo has to question the sanity of the British Wizarding World.

His initial arrival at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry should have been enough of a clue. Being unable to Apparate or Disapparate through the boundaries of the castle is understandable, but having the ‘most accessible’ Apparition point in Hogsmeade Village is not. Ichigo has nothing against the village itself – from the small section of it he had seen, it had looked like a wonderful place; Christmas-y all year round and filled to the brim with shops, pubs, and cosy little teashops. The foot of snow he had to trek through to get anywhere close to the castle is another matter entirely – unmarked paths lead up to the school; no signs, no directions, nobody around to help him. Yes, one would have to be blind (or Muggle) to miss the impressive turrets of the castle, but knowing where they are on the horizon doesn’t make them any easier to get to.

He’d gotten lost – three times! – just trying to find the correct way out of the village.

Then he’d had to trek with his entire luggage through the rocky Scottish landscape.

(Spelling it weightless had been his first move. The idea had been brilliant up until the bitter September wind had blown his suitcase off course and sent it crashing back down the mountainside).

(Ichigo’s sure that his  _Accio_  spell had missed a sock or seven).

The view of the castle had almost been worth the trouble. Carved from the mountain and stretching into the sky, Hogwarts is impressive to gaze upon. Bigger than life and older than ancient, the towers look like stone soldiers from the distance, their watchful eye extending far across the lake, over the grounds and towards the autumn sun, setting between the cliff tops. The entrance doors are lined with so much magic that Ichigo could feel it as he approached; tingling across his skin like cold fire, it seemed to assess him, jumping along the length of his arm in bounding, questioning motions.

He knew better than to fight it, and the doors had opened for him.

The griffin statue guarding the Headmaster’s office had not been so welcoming – threatening, it had glared down at him with its beady, immobile eyes. Words did not reach Ichigo’s ears, but the wizard heard the tone just the same; wariness, protectiveness, and stubbornness.

Unfortunately for the griffin, Ichigo is just as stubborn.

(He’s not sure, but he thinks the statue may have conceded a fraction of a second before Professor Dumbledore bid him entrance).

Across from Ichigo, the esteemed Headmaster plops another lemon drop into his mouth and looks positively delighted when it makes him cry.

Ichigo transfigures his résumé into a tissue for the poor man.

Professor Dumbledore gives him the job anyway.

When Ichigo asks about the Headmaster’s… quirks… later at the designated  _meet-the-new-professor-before-he-goes-insane_  introductory meeting (dubbed  _meet-the-new-professor-before-he-dies-a-brutal-death_ for those applying for Defence Against the Dark Arts, apparently), the question is met with a round of laughter and a few sympathetic looks from his fellow colleagues.

“Don’t worry,” says Minerva McGonagall, the Transfiguration professor, as she offers him a biscuit. “You’ll get used to Albus’ ways. He has a certain… method of handling his staff.”

“I felt like I was five again,” Ichigo admits, mumbling around the custard cream.

“We’ve all been there,” grumbles a startling redheaded man, his tattoos furrowing as he nods his head sympathetically. Flopping into a chair opposite Ichigo, the man lounges back to where the Transfiguration professor has slipped off. “Oi, Minerva,” he calls, voice a thick rumble. “You got any more of those biscuits?”

“They’re not  _for_  you,” somebody else cuts in, zipping across the staff room to swat the man over the back of the head. She’s short, Ichigo notes immediately, but there’s a fire in her eyes that he would never argue with. Raven hair framing a rounded, young face, the woman scowls at the roughly spoken man and kicks him into introducing himself.

“Oh – yeah.” A large hand reaches across the makeshift circle of chairs in greeting. Ichigo takes it, looking amused. “I’m Abarai Renji, I’m the  _Alchemy_  professor here, and I also assist Professor Kuchiki in teaching  _The Study of_   _Ancient Runes_ – not that he needs it, mind you, but hey, I get paid.”

Ichigo strives to reserve all judgement beyond an initial meeting, but he has to admit that he never would have guessed the jagged-edged, sharp-tongued wizard to teach  _Alchemy_.

“And I’m Kuchiki Rukia,” the petite woman adds, lavender eyes smiling. “I teach  _Art_  as an extra-curriculum subject, but I help out with  _Care of Magical Creatures_  from time to time. It’s nice to meet you.”

Returning the sentiment, Ichigo introduces himself. It’s unnecessary since the whole meeting is catered around his arrival, but he has a feeling that being quick to learn that anything Professor Dumbledore devises is a dubious arrangement will mark whether he will survive the first term at Hogwarts or not.

The other professors come and go throughout the next hour, shaking Ichigo’s hand and offering him more refreshments than he knows what to do with. Most of the staff seem genuine in their pleasantries, some tremendously so (the Herbology teacher had tried to hug him – a classic Hufflepuff trait, Ichigo is assured amongst awkward laughter). Others are either short and concise with their greetings, eyeing him like a fresh piece of meat (here Ichigo thinks of Professor Snape, the Potions Master), or noticeably absent.

Ichigo usually wouldn’t care much for the latter, except the castle is about to become his home and he feels compelled to gather as many familiar faces as possible.

“Well,” says Rukia when he quietly admits such to her. She looks around the room, no doubt trying to catalogue those that have been present. “I think you’ve met nearly everyone. Madame Pomfrey seldom leaves the Hospital Wing, but I think… Oh, no – Professor Trelawney isn’t here but…” She glances sidelong at Ichigo, her expression unreadable. “Well, I’m sure you’ll meet her at some point. And I haven’t seen Professor Hitsugaya – he’s pretty hard to miss.”

“What do they teach?”

“Professor Trelawney teaches  _Divination_  – yeah,” she adds, seeing the flash of incredulity he cannot prevent. “Exactly. And Professor Hitsugaya teaches  _Astronomy_. If you’re thinking of saying  _hi_  to either of them, I’d suggest Professor Hitsugaya. I don’t know what he sees in the stars, but he’s less likely to predict your death so it’s probably nothing bad.”

Ichigo can’t really argue with that one. He thanks her and manages to weave his way out of the staff room to do a bit of exploring, making a note to find the Astronomy classroom after dinner. Avoiding the Divination room for the time being sounds like a good idea – at least until he’s comfortable in the castle and has memorised the quickest escape route back to his quarters just in case Professor Trelawney  _were_  to ever predict something horrendous.

He hopes she won’t.

Hogwarts is definitely whacky, but something about it already feels like home.

 

 

The Astronomy classroom is a part of Hogwarts Castle that Ichigo never expected to venture. A staircase of jagged, precarious stone leads up to the secluded corner of the castle; located almost at the peak of Hogwarts’ tallest tower, amber hues of the evening sunset embellish the classroom. Windows as old as time stretch far out of reach, enclosed by frames of iron and bronze. Archaic, the room appears empty at first glance, but domes of glass and giant twisted globes of light seem to hang unsupported over the floorboards, and the faint, chalk-like lines upon the ground seam together to form a design as intricate and complicated as the night’s sky. Ancient shelves of questionable stability line the walls. Upon them, tomes of silver and gold are stacked, organised into an alignment beyond Ichigo’s understanding. Merely holding one will improve a man’s IQ, but he dares not touch them lest his ignorance fingerprints tarnish upon their crumbling spines.

Mesmerised, he doesn’t hear the door clunk shut behind him, nor spot the flash of light his entrance rouses; a comet or a star, the ball hovers above Ichigo’s auburn hair for a second before zipping across the room, bouncing along bookcases and spherical models and into the alcove hidden by great marble pillars.

A crash echoes around the gallery space. Before the resulting curse can follow the tumble of books, Ichigo has trailed Scorpius across the floor and launched himself up the room’s central platform onto Sagittarius’ teapot, wand of ebony and unicorn hair summoned from his pocket. Parchment and astronomic volumes pile high on the desk tucked into corner of the gazebo, and more textbooks are scattered across the floorboards, their faded pages bent from the fall.

There is a young man ducked behind the desk, draped in a boundless navy robe and hair a supernova explosion, gathering up star charts on his hands and knees. With a flick of his wrist, Ichigo levitates the remaining books and squeezes them back onto the desk, and the stranger jumps, one of the scrolls almost tipping out of his arms.

“Are you alright?” Ichigo asks, half-leaping forward to catch anything else that might end up on the floor.

The nameless man sets the charts onto the table, balancing them impossibly atop the mountain of tomes. Teal eyes consider Ichigo from behind large, rectangular spectacles. Mouth set into a firm line, the other wizard inclines his head and answers with a polite quip:

“Yes, thank you. And although I appreciate your assistance, please try to refrain from using magic on these books next time – they’re very old. Some of the figures and text react to different wand cores, so I’ve enforced minimal uses of all magic while in this classroom.”

Ichigo slips his wand back into his pocket and tries not to look guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says, hoping he hasn’t just ruined the other’s careful work with his unawareness. “I’ll remember that for next time – and, err, I’m Kurosaki Ichigo by the way. Rukia said I would probably find Professor Hitsugaya up here – he, err, wasn’t at the introductory meeting. Are you…?”

With an eye roll, the other says, “Kuchiki-san should know better than to send people to me unannounced while I’m working, but yes, I am who you’re looking for. It’s nice to meet you, Professor Kurosaki. I hope Hogwarts is treating you well.”

Bowing slightly, the little professor regards Ichigo with an expression entirely neutral apart from a single white eyebrow, raised in question.

Returning the welcome, Ichigo rubs the back of his neck. “I haven’t gotten lost yet,” he replies, fighting the urge to  _touch wood_  at that declaration. There’s certainly enough of it in the room at any least. “Although I’m pretty sure I never really know where I’m going.”

Professor Hitsugaya looks amused at that. “That’s because the castle is guiding you,” he explains, gesturing for the other professor to make himself comfortable at the desk. Ichigo complies, relaxing into one of the two great armchairs in the alcove, and tucks his elbows close lest he knock something more valuable than his life from the counter. The Astronomy professor taps his hand twice against the edge of the desk, and barely a moment later the wood has stretched out towards Ichigo, extending into an extra little table. A tray pops into existence, loaded with a teapot and saucers and a plate of biscuits neatly arranged in a circle.

“You’ll find that it is in her nature to assist you while you are within her walls – first year students are not so fortunate, but I think she enjoys watching their rather extravagant reactions as they explore,” Professor Hitsugaya continues, pouring out their tea. He talks at a pace that suggests he’s not one inclined to chatting at length, but Ichigo can understand that. Teaching students and conversing with professors in the staff room have entirely different requirements, and he finds interacting with a group of students far more rewarding than his peers.

Ichigo cannot place the brand of the tea being served, but as the flavour wafts into the alcove in gentle puffs of steam, he realises it smells like what his sister used to brew after dinner; something subtle and smooth and tasting of home.

“Thanks,” he says, accepting the cup.

Professor Hitsugaya places his own amongst the charts and books, and then settles himself into the opposite armchair. There is a moment in which all Ichigo can see of the wizard is the tips of his wintry hair, but then the textbook stacks part way for the professor’s glowering expression.

Ichigo laughs into his drink and dares to ask; “How old are you?”

The colossal globe of the solar system hanging from the ceiling creaks and turns, as if attempting to flee from Professor Hitsugaya’s icy glare.

Hiding his smirk behind his cup, Ichigo stays exactly where he is.

He’s seen worse things than a short-tempered snowman before.

 

 

One encounter is not enough to become friends, so Ichigo takes it upon himself to bombard the Astronomy classroom whenever possible. Most of Professor Hitsugaya’s classes are during the day, as are Ichigo’s, so despite the fact that they often clash they  _are_  at least awake at the same time. When asked if their polar opposite teaching interests would cause a timetabling problem between them, Professor Hitsugaya had swiftly shot down such a ludicrous idea.

“Asking eleven year olds to stay up past midnight is unethical,” the stargazer had criticised, looking offended at the mere suggestion that his classes all run into the early hours of the morning. “I don’t ask my final year students to commit to evening hours if they don’t wish to – some people work best in the morning and afternoon, and I respect that, but those who wish to study reality rather than a spell I offer my time – so why would I ask children to do the same?”

“And really,” his tirade had gone on, interrupted only briefly by his quickly becoming familiar eye roll. “You  _could_  get further apart than Astronomy and Muggle Studies. At least they both recognise the existence of  _science_.”

Ichigo had laughed and replied with a cold, cynically amusing truth: “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me about Muggle Studies.”

They bond over their misunderstood, underappreciated subjects. Ichigo knows there are worse things they could use as a basis for friendship, and is thus happy to swap student horror stories with the Astronomy professor once the term begins. The sheer amount of them is ridiculous, especially on Ichigo’s part. Unlike Astronomy, which runs from first year to seventh year, Muggle Studies is an elective subject. Students don’t have to take it if they don’t want to, yet many, many pupils consider it a ‘soft-option’ or take it for laughs, and Ichigo definitely feels like he has pulled the short straw with that one. Mostly, it’s not the students’ fault – he has done his research, and the subject has never truly been taught to the standard of those like Charms, Potions, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. The majority of wizards and witches simply don’t care about the Muggle World, and Ichigo is trying to change that one student at a time.

It’s not easy.

Muggleborns like to correct him, halfbloods are inheritably confused, and purebloods are so outrageously uninterested that one word into the textbook is enough to have them snoring at the back of the classroom.

Therefore, Ichigo takes matters into his own hands.

“Professor Flitwick, could I ask you something?” he begins one evening at dinner, seating himself next to the miniature Charms professor. The meal is in full swing and the noise in the hall is almost deafening, but conversation across the Head table is clear thanks to the Headmaster’s noise-reduction spell work. As such, Ichigo can hear Professor Flitwick’s responding squeak over the sound of Pomona Sprout’s bounding laughter.

“Call me Filius, please,” says the professor, slurping up a mouthful of what Ichigo thinks is cherry syrup and soda. “But yes, of course you can. What troubles you?”

The younger professor gathers a selection of food before answering, mostly stalling. “Is there any way of making Muggle appliances work in the castle?” he asks, already certain that the response is going to be a  _no_ , but feeling the need to double-check. “I know telephones don’t work, but what about things that run on the mains? Toasters and stuff.”

To his credit, Filius doesn’t ask what a  _toaster_  is, and instead ponders the question over his meal. “You’re not the first person to ask, you know. We receive many questions from potential muggleborn students and their parents about what they can and cannot bring. Some objects do not respond well to Hogwarts’ magic – err – those square things with the lights –”

“Mobile telephones,” Ichigo supplies. “You know not many people have those –”

“Aha, yes, those things!” Filius blurts, missing the correction. “Hogwarts doesn’t like telephones or those strange box things, but I imagine things that do not connect to the – the –”

Used to conversations such as this with his students, Ichigo is happy to fill in the blanks in the wizard’s Muggle knowledge. “Satellite networks?” he guesses, stabbing a potato.

“Yes, yes,” Filius continues, looking more uncertain this time. “I imagine they would work if you could provide some form of power source. We tell students not to bring anything electrical with them simply because we don’t want them messing around with magic that they are yet to understand, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.”

“So  _I_  could substitute electricity for magic?” Ichigo asks, lifting his voice hopefully. He can understand why students unwittingly mixing electrical equipment and magic is a bad idea, but now graduated and a certified professor of his own, Ichigo has enough knowledge about the fundaments of magic to experiment.

(Surely?)

“Of course,” says Filius, looking pleased with Ichigo’s assessment.

“So why has nobody done that here yet?”

The little professor shrugs. “Habit? It  _is_  quite magical in itself to be so cut off from the techno – techno – um – the tech world, don’t you think?”

Ichigo would agree, although the professor’s tumble over the description removes some of the enchantment from the idea. He thanks the Charms professor and moves the conversation onto a more familiar topic, the back of his mind whirring with ideas throughout the rest of the meal.

When the main courses disappear and the plates refill with all sorts of cake, ice cream, and delicious fatty snacks, Ichigo excuses himself from the table and ventures out of the Great Hall, passing between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff rows. The ruby-clad students are boisterous and loud, sharing jokes along the table and roaring between themselves. Conversely, the gentler yellows of the Hufflepuffs are content to talk in small groups, but their conversation weaves effortlessly between them all, undisturbed by the rowdiness of the Gryffindors.

Ichigo likes to think if he had enrolled at Hogwarts that he would have been a Hufflepuff. As loyal as the lion, as protective as the serpent, and as studious as the raven, the badger seems like the animal to aspire to. He imagines he would have found lifelong friends in Helga Hufflepuff’s house.

He has his friends – wizarding and Muggle alike – but separated by half a world they seem so far away. They maintain contact through owl and Muggle post, but neither method is as efficient as the communicative technology that Ichigo grew up with. Born a halfblood and raised something closer to a Muggle, Ichigo’s family home had been populated with all manner of kitchen appliances and gadgets. It’s not quite the same anymore – he and his sisters have long moved from the comforts of Karakura, and now alone with only his questionably-sane wizarding friends, their father has reverted most of the house back to functioning on a magical power source. To Ichigo’s knowledge, parts of the kitchen still use electrical means – the radio, for instance, is only Muggle-tuned – and although he has never directly asked his father about it, Ichigo imagines Isshin’s decision is out of respect for their mother. While alive, Masaki had been as bright and wild as any wizard or witch, but entirely Muggle through and through and proud of such, she had delighted in the fantasy of magic despite being unable to wield it for her own.

Yuzu cannot use it either, but the wondeful thing with magic is that it accommodates for change.  Their childhood home  _adapts_  to her presence, ensuring that she can still use anything and everything she may wish to, as it had always done with their mother.

Ichigo supposes if that is possible, then bribing Hogwarts to let him bring in some Muggle equipment might just be feasible too.

He arrives at his quarters to find the painting of the duo that guard the entrance to be unusually empty. The hilltop and the stretching greenery, seeming to wind back into meadows and great, protruding cliffs somewhere in the depths of his room, are still present, but the portraits have gone wandering, probably to chat. There is a second lock in place for such incidents, so Ichigo pays the disappearance little mind and taps the combination key into the frame with the tip of his wand, feeling the tingle of magic that will subsequently inform both portraits that he has returned.

The door opens and Ichigo is greeted with a screech and a squawk from within. Feathers bombarding him from every angle, the professor has just enough time to protect his face before the eagle owl is upon him, flapping great gusts of wind in the loudest, more inelegant hunting display that Ichigo has ever witnessed. The bird scrambles in the air about him, hooting madly in the owl equivalent of profanities. Its speckled black and white feathers blur across Ichigo’s vision, and its beak, starving for attention, nips and tugs at the professor’s robe.

“Shiro you great lump, stop it!” the wizard snaps, batting the owl away.

Answering with something close to a cackle, the owl detaches himself and glides back into the quarters, swooping in an effortless silence onto his perch. Ichigo readjusts his cloak and storms in after the creature, waiting until the door has firmly shut before glaring fierce disapproval across the room.

Shiro hoots happily. Beside him, the humongous coal-dyed owl clacks his beak together and pinches the resident rascal in a motion akin to a punishing slap. White feathers ruffle indignantly, but Shiro ceases his wide-eyed amusement and shuffles a little further away from the parenting owl.

“Thank you Zangetsu,” Ichigo sighs, offering the impressive Blakiston’s fish owl a grateful pat as he passes. “Any mail?”

Zangetsu rolls his head towards the coffee table. Collecting the letters, Ichigo shrugs his robe away and slings it onto the sofa, kicking off his shoes.  Behind him, Shiro hoots in question, and the wizard rolls his eyes as he treks into the little kitchen, holding out an arm despite his previous irritation.

“Come on then,” he says, hardly paying attention to his companions as the letters start to open in his other hand, neatly unfolding themselves to reveal their messages. One is from his sister Karin, and the other is a joint effort from some of his wizarding friends back in Japan – Inoue, Chad, and Ishida, judging by the handwriting.

“Wonder what they want,” he muses, setting the letters down on the kitchen counter and levitating the kettle closer with a dismissive wave of his wand. It jerks and teeters as it hovers towards him, steam gushing out of the top. Domestic magic has never really been his forte, but Ichigo makes do with clumsy china and chatting cupboards.

Now seated firmly on his arm, Shiro hoots and peers closer to inspect the letters as Ichigo pours himself some tea.

“Go on,” says the auburn wizard, watching the owl eye the paper hungrily. “I dare you.”

Shiro glances up at him with his bright, yellow eyes and wisely thinks better of it.

“Good boy,” says Ichigo. He gathers up the letters again and wanders back into the living room, making himself comfortable on the sofa. His quarters are sparsely decorated, but he reasons that he hasn’t that the rooms will fill up after he has been at Hogwarts for longer than a month. Currently, there is little more than a sofa, coffee table, and bookcases upon bookcases of books, although Ichigo knows buried somewhere under all of his paperwork there are some more boxes of his personal items – photos, ornaments, and that sort of thing.

Unpacking hasn’t exactly been a priority.

(He doesn’t trust the value of his possessions with the fickleness of his cleaning magic).

From his perch, Zangetsu hoots, tilting his head and ruffling his smoky black feathers. He is by far the largest, most impractical messenger owl that Ichigo has ever seen, and he has a pride issue to match. Ichigo had been forced to purchase Shiro when Zangetsu blatantly refused to carry mail further than a town – he shares his owner’s stubbornness – and the wizard regrets that decision almost every day. To his credit, Shiro is willing to traverse the world with his hyperactive nature and enthusiasm to bombard recipients until they accept their mail, but when he’s not off scouring the Earth he is stuck in Ichigo’s quarters causing havoc.

And havoc he causes.

Plenty of it.

Zangetsu is usually enough to keep him in line, but the great fish owl does what he pleases and that’s not often babysitting Shiro.

“You are totally more trouble than you’re worth,” Ichigo grumbles, giving his arm a jiggle so that the little white owl bounces up and down. “I bet there’s some more unsuspecting student who would be happy to take you off my hands.”

Shiro emits his cackling sound, chirping his amusement. His enormous eyes are filled with disbelief.

Zangetsu hoots again.

“Don’t you start,” Ichigo snaps.

 

 

Progress with introducing his students to the first-hand wonders of Muggle technology is slow, so when Ichigo hasn’t shut himself in his office with a broken, temperamental toaster, he spends his free time wandering around the castle. More often than not he ends up dragged into the staff room to socialise (Professor McGonagall’s biscuits are great, but they’re not _that_  great), or recounting tales of his time in Japan to the paintings near the Gryffindor Common Room. Renji and Rukia usually rope him into passing the evenings by playing a disastrous game of Exploding Snap mixed with butterbeer, and while Ichigo does thoroughly enjoy himself, his second years aren’t so forgiving when he tumbles into class the next day with a hangover.

It takes a  _lot_  of butterbeer to become intoxicated to the point that magic isn’t much help.

Madame Pomfrey isn’t sympathetic.

Neither is Professor Hitsugaya, but he at least puts up with Ichigo’s complaining and kindly asks the House Elves in the kitchen to provide their strongest brand of coffee.

Renji calls Ichigo a  _wuss_ , but then walks into the end of the Ravenclaw table on his way from the Great Hall and trips over somebody’s bag.

Ichigo feels better after that.

The inevitable encounter with Professor Trelawney occurs in the third week of term, and Ichigo would congratulate himself on how long he has avoided her for if he wasn’t currently being scrutinised by humongous green eyes and an untameable head of frizz.

The two first years he is with cower behind him. Ichigo doesn’t blame them – Professor Trelawney rises up onto her tiptoes and hums thoughtfully at his nose, impersonating some wild, rabid meerkat. Trying not to lean away, Ichigo settles a neutral, calm expression onto his face and hopes his first years think he is braver than he’s actually feeling.

“Professor Trelawney,” he greets, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Can I help you?”

She continues staring at his nose, as if the once-broken flesh and bone holds all of the answers of the universe. Ichigo resists the urge to direct her to Professor Hitsugaya for those – he doubts his short-tempered friend would appreciate her snooping around his sundials much, somehow.

“Hmm,” says the Divination professor, tilting her head like an owl. Her eyes seem to stare straight through his chest and into his soul, and Ichigo squirms uncomfortably. Even Kisuke, the Potions professor back in Karakura’s wizarding school, hadn’t ever compared Ichigo to the marvels of the cosmos to such a degree before. “I sense no previous affiliation with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

One of the students squeaks. Professor Trelawney blinks, unfazed by the display of fear.

“Who?” Ichigo asks, unable to prevent a scowl from falling onto his face.

“You have a different name for him in Japan?” she asks, inching herself so close that Ichigo can feel her hair move as he breathes.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” he says gruffly, taking a step back and almost squishing the students. They scamper away, tucking their bags closer for protection. “If you’d excuse me, Professor, I need to see these students to their class. I’m sorry I can’t be much more help.”

He slips away, robe billowing behind the large gait of his escape. The first years blurt formalities to the stunned Divination professor and race to catch up with him, trotting along half a length away. Ichigo continues until the staircase has whisked them all towards the West wing, and then offers an apology to the students.

They share a glance, braver now that Ichigo is the only professor nearby.

“Sir,” one of them begins, twiddling a lock of her golden hair around her finger. Panic flashes across the other’s rounded expression, and Ichigo raises an eyebrow as the girl blurts; “Do you... do you really not know who He-Must-Not-Be-Named is?”

The staircase  _clanks_  as it swings to a stop.

“Is he important?” Ichigo asks offhandedly, trying to work out exactly where the kids’ classroom is now. Professor Trelawney’s unexpected entrance has completely thrown him off, and he pats the banister, silently asking the castle to lead him in the right direction.

“My parents always used to say that he was a really bad person,” says the girl, glancing at her friend for support. “He used to hurt lots of people, and did bad things.”

“Evil things,” the other chimes in.

“But he’s gone now, sir!” the girl continues, just as Ichigo starts to worry that he’s  _really_  gotten them lost. “There was a boy – named Harry Potter – and he managed to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named somehow.”

“Not sure how,” says the boy, looking just as mystified. “But how can you  _not_  know sir? There are tonnes and tonnes of books on it – like – like… err…”

The first years fall silent, wracking their brains for an example. Ichigo takes the chance to herd them into the Charms classroom, waving an apology to Filius. The Charms professor gives him an odd look but welcomes the two students, and Ichigo dives back out of the room before the kids can realise that he never answered their questions.

He wanders back to the Muggle Studies classroom to prepare for his next class, pondering the nature of his conversation with Professor Trelawney. It’s probably nothing to be worked up over, but something about the look in her eyes had disturbed him. Unable to pinpoint exactly what he had said to cause such a reaction, Ichigo summons his schedule from the desk and flicks through it, groaning when it informs him that he has fourth years next.

Fourteen and fifteen year olds are the  _worst_.

Checking the time, the auburn wizard sighs. He has wasted more time with Professor Trelawney and his search for the Charms classroom than he had thought.

Resolved not to worry about it for now, Ichigo jots  _Harry Potter?_  down in the margin of the planner and sets it aside.

 

 

“Kurosaki-san!” greets one of the two portraits that guard Ichigo’s quarters, his words a familiar elegance of Japanese as the ginger professor approaches. The man in the painting gives a cheerful wave and sets his tea aside, shuffling around the low table to formally welcome the professor back to his rooms.

Ichigo smiles and returns the wave. The textbooks hovering behind him float into the back of his head when he stops, and the portrait laughs softly, pale face brightening in amusement. The sound encourages the other guard to slip into the side of the painting, sneaking into the room like a shadow, and his eyes widen beneath the brim of his straw hat when he spots Ichigo standing there.

“Hello Kyoraku-san,” the Muggle Studies professor says, inclining his head to the gruffer man enshrouded by a flowery kimono of pink and purple. Both portraits are wearing uniform black yukatas, but each are personalised to set them apart – Kyoraku, with the floral kimono he uses like a cloak, and Ukitake with the cut of his hair, gracefully long and wintry white, tumbling down his back. Both men carry blades at their sides, and though he is curious, Ichigo has never asked where their wands are.

“How are you both?” he queries, watching the sunny scenery of their painting drift past the window. October is almost upon the castle, and the winter chill is already setting into the stone. Ichigo is going to have to start using warming charms on his hands if he wants to still be able to mark essays by the end of the month.

“We’re well, thank you,” says Ukitake, the more talkative of the Japanese duo. Beside him, his friend smirks into his teacup, and Ichigo wonders what childish things they have been doing about the castle. “How were your classes?”

Ichigo shrugs. “They’re okay. My fourth year Gryffindors looked ready to murder me when I set them an essay. They may be lions, but they’re got the memory of a goldfish – I warned them last lesson that I would be setting them it. The Hufflepuffs took it in stride, and I can never tell with the Slytherins. Half of the Ravenclaws had already completed it – do they ever do anything but work?”

Kyoraku laughs and Ichigo hurriedly corrects himself as he remembers that the flamboyant alcoholic had lived amongst the ravens in life. The dark haired wizard merely brushes Ichigo’s apology away, looking more amused than offended at the (ludicrous) suggestion that he never had a social life.

Kyoraku had more social life than anybody Ichigo has ever met.

(He still does).

“I still haven’t gotten the toaster to work either,” the professor continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I think I fried the microwave by accident earlier. I’m going to have to check but I think it’s done for. Getting a hold of another one isn’t going to be easy, but at least Shiro’ll be out of my hair for a while.”

The paintings laugh. They have witnessed the owl’s particularly destructive form of enthusiasm many times already, and they probably will again once the conversation ends and Ichigo braves entering his quarters. He is sure they’ll consider Shiro’s brief departure as much as a welcome relief as he will.

“Actually,” Ichigo goes on, frowning slightly. “You two wouldn’t happen to know who  _Harry Potter_  and  _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_  are, would you? Prof – err – I had a conversation with some students today, and they seemed to think I should know who they are…?”

Kyoraku and Ukitake glance at each other, their expressions surprised.

Ichigo takes that response as a clear  _yes, you should know_ , and tries not to feel like an idiot.

“You can read about it in  _Hogwarts: A History_ ,” says Ukitake gently, and his partner-in-crime nods solemnly. “But… He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a powerful wizard with the potential to do great things; a student here, once, and an amazingly bright one. His views were extreme, and he tried to further the divide between wizards and muggles some years ago. He… caused a lot of trouble and suffering, but he’s gone now.”

Wondering if that was the briefest description of the event that anybody had ever received, Ichigo nods his understanding. The library is going to be the place to be tonight, it seems, unless he can prompt anything more elaborate from the paintings.

“So who’s Harry Potter?” he attempts, thinking back to what the students had said.

“A boy,” Kyoraku explains, confirming Ichigo’s suspicions. “He must be almost ten now. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named tried to kill him when he was very young, but for reason currently unknown and still widely debated – really, you should speak to more of the portraits Kurosaki-san, we have  _plenty_  to talk about – the killing curse didn’t work and instead He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanished.”

“The killing curse?” Ichigo repeats, stunned. “How did a baby survive that? It’s unstoppable, isn’t it?”

“Apparently so,” Ukitake confirms, a sigh of pure sadness pulling down his expression. “But apparently not.”

“Jesus,” says Ichigo, shaking his head. The whole thing sounds like a story – an evil madman and an innocent child; two sides of a coin; darkness and light against each other. That the baby survived the most dangerous curse in the world is unbelievable, except clearly people consider it fact. There must be evidence to support what happened – the boy would not remember, but perhaps his parents have more to say?

Ichigo almost asks, but a  _thump_  and a squawk interrupts his intentions; the painting frame rattles and screeches, and both portraits startle. Kyoraku bellows his rumbling laugh. Ukitake jumps away from the table, looking mildly flustered as the painting trembles again.

“I think your owl is trying to get out,” mutters one of the portraits, but Ichigo is too overwhelmed by mortification to register which one as the frame swings open and Shiro’s juddering mass of exuberance flings itself into the hallway.

Ichigo almost –  _almost_  – hexes his ridiculous pet, but he has his morals and the owl has his rights, even if Shiro consistently abuses them simply to irritate his owner.

“Yes, yes, alright, I’m happy to see you too,” the wizard grumbles, grudgingly allowing the hyperactive ball of feathers to balance precariously upon his shoulder. Shiro makes an odd sound that Ichigo has come to recognise as  _chuffed_ , and swats the professor with the end of a wing.

Zangetsu’s  _hoot_  calls him out on his blatant lie.

Ducked into a painting across the hallway, the Japanese guards share a sympathetic glance.

 

 

Hogwarts’ library is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Just as some students would rather study Astronomy at midnight with telescopes atop the tower, the library caters for those who find their inspiration in the empty hours of the night, in the silent mornings and the sleepless days. From eight until eight the limitless shelves, winding up to the ceiling in infinite spirals of novels and tomes, are governed  by Madame Pince, a frightening woman of strict regimes spoken through a nasally, snapping voice. Officially, her departure dead on the hour is the closing time for the library, but for students with the desperation, desire, or daring to visit after-hours, Hogwarts’ younger, marginally less terrifying librarian reopens the doors at five minutes past.

It is this woman who smacks Ichigo with a book and ushers him down the corridor when he turns up just before eight and almost walks to a pre-mature and violent death involving Madame Pince’s fury.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says the witch, pushes her glasses further up the bridge of her nose as Ichigo instinctively attempts to reach for his wand and hex his assailant. She smacks him again with the book – some great historical textbook with the capabilities of bruising, he is sure – and tucks her fringe behind her ear at his incredulous expression.

“Err, sorry,” Ichigo says hopelessly, his voice rising to reflect his confusion. “I just wanted to go to the library…?”

“I know that,” she replies, tutting at his flabbergast expression. “Madame Pince closes it at eight o’clock.”

“Oh.” Well there go his plans of researching long into the night. Why the petite woman had felt the need to reinforce her words by dragging him past the library and around the corner, Ichigo can only guess.

The witch rolls her eyes and gives him a mildly irritated look, enhanced by the curve of her spectacles. “It’ll be open again in a few minutes – just wait. Madame Pince is prone to eating those who drag their feet, so it’s best not to let her see you before she leaves.”

“I doubt she’ll let me in when she’s not there,” Ichigo argues, disappointed at his missed chance. Maybe he should just pester Kyoraku and Ukitake for more answers, although they hadn’t looked too willing to indulge him.

“Good thing you’ve got me,” says the witch as she checks her watch, the four dials spinning around atop the larger timepiece; the hands tick round, and one of the cogs twirls the other way. It’s not quite five minutes past eight yet, but Ichigo’s sure he heard Madame Pince bolt the library doors shut a minute or not ago, but he dares not risk it.

Ichigo’s ensuing blank expression prompts the unnamed witch to elaborate:

“Madame Ise,” she introduces, offering a little bow. “I’m one of the librarians here. Most people call me  _Nanao_ though.”

Before he can properly introduce himself in return, words gush out of Ichigo’s mouth in rapid succession – her name triggers something in the back of his mind; familiarity and amusement.

“Oh my god, you’re the woman Kyoraku-san likes to sing about.”

Nanao’s expression hardens. For a split second, Ichigo thinks she’s about to stun him. It would be deserving too, considering the nature of the songs that he has heard his painting bellowing down the corridors.

“Ah,” says Nanao, pushing her glasses again. “You must be the owner of the room he has been assigned then?”

“Yeah – Kurosaki Ichigo – err,  _Professor_  Kurosaki Ichigo. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she replies, looking somewhat uncertain. “Come, I think it should be safe to reopen the library now.”

They sneak back down the corridor, Ichigo half-tempted to cast a silencing charm on his feet, and Nanao leading the way, walking briskly with intent. When they arrive back at the old wooden doors, there is already a pair of nervous fifth years eyeing the handle, but they brighten upon noticing Nanao’s approach, relief flooding onto their faces. The Gryffindor pockets his wand, but if Nanao notices his near-attempt at blasting open the library then she makes no comment about it as she waves the combination motions and unlocks the door.

The students gush  _thank you_ ,  _you’re the best Madame Ise_ , and  _I thought Madame Pince was coming for a second there_ , and scamper inside with their arms overflowing with parchment and inkwells. Ichigo follows them in, almost knocking over a tottering stack of books by the entrance, and casts a muttered  _Lumos_  to light his way to the front desk. All of the lanterns lining the magnificent oak walls are out, but Nanao makes quick work of relighting them all with a further wave of her wand.

“Won’t Madame Pince notice?” the Muggle Studies professor asks as she levitates over the directory and summons various items towards her – parchment, ink, and another chair for Ichigo to sit on.

Nanao rolls her eyes in a motion that fondly reminds Ichigo of Professor Hitsugaya.

He wonders if they’re friends.

“Madame Pince is in the frame of mind that anything locked in the library overnight is protected from all ill-harm by her sensory charms, except I countered those my first night here and she has yet to realise.”

She informs him of this with such a dismissive, neutral air as she sets about rearranging her colleague’s desk to suit her own needs that Ichigo cannot help but understand that fire that Kyoraku refers to when he sings songs of her soul. At first glance, Nanao is regulation perfected; pinned up hair, rounded glasses, kind yet stern eyes of sapphire blue. But beneath that are a selfless passion and the love of all things comically dry, and Ichigo laughs.

“I look forward to the time when you take over the library,” he says.

Nanao gives him a serious look before smiling and ducking back down to her work. “Some would say I already have.”

He spends a couple of hours seated at the opposite end of her desk, flicking through the books she has recommended for his study. Apparently, there are a lot of texts on the subject of Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and while Ichigo doesn’t mind reading a bit of literature here and there, studying has never been a favourite pastime of his. Nanao takes pity on his puppy-dog expression and summons only a few books for him, and Ichigo spends the rest of the night feeling dumb beside the humongous stack of books waiting at her side to be read.

He learns a lot, but also little.

He learns that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has a less wordy title –  _Lord Voldemort_ , which is the most arrogant thing Ichigo has ever heard – and he learns that the name is taboo when he tries to mutter it aloud, attempting the syllables to himself.

(Nanao doesn’t tell him off for it, but one of the students walking past practically screams).

“It’s pronounced  _Voldemort_ ,” says the librarian, reciting it slowly. “But try and refrain from blurting it aloud.”

“It’s just a name,” Ichigo argues, closing the textbook and pushing it aside with a huff.

“Names hold power.”

“He’s  _dead_.”

Nanao hums unhelpfully and says no more.

It isn’t until Ichigo is lying in bed that night that he realises not one single person or textbook he consulted on the topic mentioned Voldemort’s death.

 _Vanished_  and  _defeated_  don’t necessarily mean killed after all.

 

 

Christmas approaches with the steady, endless rhythm of homework marking and assessment planning. Winter, on the other hand, plummets onto Hogwarts one early November morning, dumping a solid two feet of snow onto the castle without any warning. That morning Ichigo almost misses his first class when he peers through the curtains and the unwelcome blizzard nearly blinds him with its greeting. Thus, he decides that waking isn’t worth it and rolls back over, consequently sleeping in through breakfast and only waking when a snowball smacks against the glass as a violent, well-aimed alarm clock substitute.

Up far too late to have a proper shower, Ichigo has to make-do with a couple of cleaning charms. They’re convenient, but they’re hardly as satisfying as the feeling of hot water down his back, but there is time for nothing else. The mirror in his bathroom tuts at him as he scrambles past, searching frantically for the toothbrush and deodorant, but Ichigo can’t afford to waste time listening to its fashionable suggestions. In five minutes flat he has summoned his bag towards him and is shoving on his shoes, and Kyoraku and Ukitake aren’t the only ones to shoot him concerned looks as he rushes past; Zangetsu, having been happily dozing in the corner, hoots and ruffles his wings.

Ichigo gets the message loud and clear and runs faster.

A House Elf  _pops_  into the Muggle Studies classroom at the end of the first period and bustles a tray of tea, okayu, and miso soup into Ichigo’s hands, chatting away about  _Master Kurosaki needing his breakfast_  and  _Mistress Kuchiki hopes that this will suffice and says to inform you that you are – are – silly, Master Kurosaki, very silly._

The stuttering reveals that  _silly_  was not Rukia’s choice of words, but the Elf is too polite to repeat whatever the witch had wanted to curse him with. Ichigo extends his thanks to the little Elf and smiles at the flustered courtesy she returns before disappearing back to the kitchens. He doesn’t have much time to eat before his second class amble in, but the soup has been charmed to stay warm until he finishes it, so Ichigo slurps at it throughout the hour. Luckily, his sixth years hardly bat an eyelash at his behaviour; some even go as far as sending knowing looks his way, and he has to question who exactly it was that threw the snowball that morning.

“Alright you lot, clear off,” he says when the bell rings, having to raise his voice over the burst of motion; the screeching of chairs and clunk of rucksacks against wood. “Don’t forget to read the last of Pratchett’s  _Mort_  before next lesson – and don’t give me that look Mr. Hayworth, I know you want to read it  _really_.”

A round of  _bye Professor_  and  _see you later Professor_  follow his directions. One student pulls an apple from her bag and plonks it onto his desk, bidding him farewell with a cheery  _enjoy your breakfast Professor Kurosaki!_

Ichigo laughs so hard that he has to use  _Tergeo_  to mop up the tea he snorts from his nose.

Third period is free, but instead of tackling the Muggle appliances stashed in the corner of his quarters as he usually does, Ichigo decides to go and pay the Astronomy classroom a visit. The stargazing professor is busying drawing what Ichigo can only guess to be a constellation of some form onto a chalkboard when he quietly slips in, but before the auburn wizard can reconsider his approach, another small star explodes above the doorway at his arrival, and Professor Hitsugaya turns from the board.

Ichigo hovers there sheepishly. He enjoys turning up unannounced, but it’s rare that he accidentally interrupts a class. Said class don’t seem to care about his presence either way – in fact, they don’t seem particularly bothered about Professor Hitsugaya’s efforts either, and have instead pushed some of the tables together and are flicking through textbooks at their own pace. Realising they must be final year students – the ones who can get away with anything – Ichigo feels a little better about interrupting and sneaks across the room, grinning when the other professor does nothing to send him on his way.

“What a surprise,” Professor Hitsugaya grumbles sarcastically as he picks up the chalk again. “Finally got that toaster to work and scared off your class?”

“If only,” Ichigo says, pulling one of the unoccupied chairs away from the students. One of the Hufflepuffs glances up and smiles at him, but quickly returns to the scroll she is examining. Ichigo is too slow to offer a returning smile, and instead directs it at his friend; “You even bothering to teach today, or are you just going to stand there playing dot-to-dot?”

The professor laughs so abruptly that Ichigo wonders if one of the Slytherins had cast the tickling charmbehind their backs.

“It’s Andromeda,” clarifies the Astronomy professor, tapping the chalk against the board. Some of it breaks off and scatters across the diagram, stars exploding in the sky. The professor cleans the marks off with a Muggle eraser and looks tempted to lob it at Ichigo before setting it back down.

Ichigo shrugs, asking  _how am I supposed to know that_ , and Professor Hitsugaya rolls his eyes.

“Dammit,” one of the students mutters from the table, hissing curses to himself. “I thought it was Cassiopeia.”

“At least you’re in the right  _month_ ,” one of his friends mumbles back, staring helplessly at the textbook. “I think I’ve just drawn part of  _Pegasus_.”

“Nah,” says the other, peering over his parchment. “Hasn’t got enough feathers.”

Excusing himself from the conversation, Professor Hitsugaya steps over to check his students. He perches on the edge of the table and pulls their work towards him, inspecting the lines and dots carefully. Ichigo knows he would have no idea on where to start looking, but the fact that Professor Hitsugaya then flips the parchment over and raises an eyebrow is a worrying sign for the students. They groan and grudgingly ask for help, staring up at the dusk-cloaked professor with hopeful expressions.

“Is it fixable?” one of them asks.

“Of course it’s fixable,” Professor Hitsugaya replies, and though the statement is snappy, his voice is kind. “Here, give me your quill. Professor Kurosaki – would you fetch the star wheel on my desk please? If you can spot Cancer for once then it’s the wrong one.”

Ichigo ignores the jab at his limited constellation knowledge and shuffles over to fetch the chart. “You  _can_  call me Ichigo, you know,” he replies as he scans the desk. He thinks he’s seen the professor’s extensive star wheel once before, so he has a vague idea of what he’s looking for.

“I am aware,” says Professor Hitsugaya, holding out his hand.

Ichigo passes him the chart, hoping it’s the correct one. The white haired wizard barely glances at the disk before he has it laid out for his students, quill tracing the constellations they should be investigating. The pair of boys – young adults, really, Ichigo thinks – watch Professor Hitsugaya with rapt attention, their eyes following stars across the sky.

“Does that mean I can call you  _Tōshirō_?” Ichigo asks. He taps the desk and watches the wood extend out, a sandwich  _popping_  into existence beside his friend’s usual lunch and a steaming pot of tea.

“I’d rather you not,” says the professor, glaring a dare at the redhead over the top of his glasses. It softens somewhat when he notices the tea, but then hardens again when he realises his blunder. “It’s a long way down from the top of Astronomy tower if one can’t fly.”

Ichigo laughs as he sits back down.

 _Tōshirō it is then_.

He passes the next hour simply watching his friend teach. It’s relaxing, Ichigo finds, and he always manages to learn something new while in the Astronomy room. The seventh years don’t need much in the way of tutoring – almost experts in their own right – but Ichigo’s presence is akin to a first year’s; having never studied the stars before, he is the clueless kid sitting at the back of the classroom.  For the most part the students ignore him, and he doesn’t mind. The room itself is enough to entertain Ichigo for hours – there are sundials raised from the ground, planetary globes suspended from the ceiling, and constellations stretched across the floorboards, and the very space between them is alight with starlight. Meteor showers dance over their heads. Planets bounce about the ceiling, colliding and spinning with their satellites bobbing around them. Ichigo’s favourite is Polaris, burning at the north-most point, but Tōshirō argues that’s simply because it’s the only one he can name.

Ichigo is rectifying that though. Slowly, yes, but the world beyond their atmosphere is gradually becoming familiar to him.

“Hey Tōshirō, what’s that one?” he asks, pointing up at the ceiling to where a tiny ball of light is zipping around. It bumps into Jupiter and tumbles away, its white tail whizzing behind it. “Is it part of the meteor shower?”

“No, that’s a comet –  _and it’s Professor Hitsugaya_ ,” says the professor, following the direction. He watches the comet for a moment and then pulls out his wand, muttering a spell. Ichigo startles as he does with each of the rare moments that Tōshirō uses his wand, and then has to squint his eyes as the comet drops towards them, glowing brightly.

“I think it’s  _Reinmuth Two_ ,” Tōshirō adds, the comet slowly rotating over the tip of his hawthorn wand.

Ichigo shakes his head, watching the small lump of rock wiggle as if trying to return to the solar system model. “How do you even know that?”

“Partly – because I had to spell each individual comet into the magic-web on the ceiling, and I assure you that after you’ve wasted hours doing so, you’ll remember what ones you added, and also because I can’t seem to stop this one from constantly bumping into Jupiter.”

“Jupiter and Reinmuth Two clearly have a  _thing_  going on,” Ichigo mutters, and Tōshirō releases the spell with an exasperated sigh.

“If that’s what you want to take away from this lesson, then go ahead,” says the professor, wandering back over to his students.

Ichigo chases after him, laughing, and then regrets it when he sees the emergence of an idea span across Tōshirō’s expression. He has seen such a change in his friend’s countenance a few times before, and each had spelled something disastrous on Ichigo’s end.

“Quit exaggerating,” Tōshirō snaps, seeing the hopelessness dawn onto the ginger’s face. “This is a good opportunity to learn something, and it will assist my seventh years. Mr Devereux , Mr Fowler – why don’t you both teach Professor Kurosaki here what you learnt about Andromeda today? The rest of you – I want this room back to normal in five minutes.”

“This room’s never normal,” one of the students laughs, but they all obediently pack away their work and start to move the chairs. The two boys who had argued over Pegasus glance at each other, and then beckon Ichigo over with their Gryffindor enthusiasm.

“I have classes to teach,” Ichigo says, grumbling his half-hearted reluctance even as he sits down next to the seventh years.

Tōshirō strides about the room collecting the oldest, most valuable tomes from the clutches of the students, but he pauses in his search to send Ichigo a smirk. “And I have a  _professor_  to teach,” he replies, distractedly thanking one of the Slytherins. “Sit there quietly and I won’t throw Arcturus at you.”

“What’s Arcturus?” Ichigo finds himself asking.

The Astronomy professor doesn’t grace him with an answer.

 

 

Ichigo knows that the Christmas spirit has infected the castle when one of the Slytherin students throws up at the back of the classroom, prompting guilty and not-guilty Gryffindors alike to explode into laughter and tuck dubious packets of sweets back into their pockets. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), it is the end of the school day, so the students quickly dash away before Ichigo can pin down the culprit with a disapproving stare, but this does mean that the poor vomiting second year doesn’t have to worry about missing any classes.

“Come on,” Ichigo says to the boy, gently hauling him to his feet. Three of his friends watch with hardened, almost dangerous expressions, and though the Slytherin House doesn’t have the best reputation, Ichigo cannot deny that their protectiveness warms him. “Let’s get you down to the Hospital Wing. Can one of you boys grab his stuff? Thank you.  _Scourgify_.”

Madame Pomfrey tuts when she sees them enter, but then she does so when anybody steps through the entrance of her domain so Ichigo doesn’t take it personally. The Healer bustles the puking boy into one of the beds and summons various potions and vials towards her, clearly having seen the unfortunate condition many times before.

“Children,” she mutters to herself, shaking her head. “The things they do for entertainment sometimes – dreadful, dreadful things.”

Ichigo makes no further comment than to hum his agreement. He hovers there at the end of the bed for some time, alternating between cringing at the violent smell of sickness and assuring the boy’s friends that he will be fine, until Madame Pomfrey accomplishes in calming the vomiting to something more manageable, and turns to usher Ichigo away.

“You’re useless standing there – shoo!”

Ichigo flees, yet he only makes it halfway across the room before bumping into Rukia. The Art teacher gives him a smile and motions him to follow her to the other occupied bed in the ward; there, a third year is sat, his arm red and swollen and his face paler than the sheets of the hospital. A jar of thick, slimy-looking salve is being magically applied to the wound, and beside the boy’s head a roll of bandages hovers, waiting for their turn.

“Clever-clogs here decided to pick a fight with a magical creature,” Rukia explains, crossing her arms over her chest and levelling the boy with her terrifying glare. “ _Didn’t you_  Mr Taylor?”

“Yes Professor Kuchiki,” the student mumbles, looking sorry for himself.

“What one?” Ichigo asks, glancing at the wound. “You’re teaching about salamanders at the moment, aren’t you?”

“It was a thestral actually. It wandered out from the Forbidden Forest to see what we were doing. They’re usually very gentle creatures – unless you decide that kicking one is a good idea, of course.”

The third year blushes, looking ashamed. Rukia shakes her head gently in disapproval, but the ferocity of her expression eases. Ichigo would imagine that it’s due to the boy’s unfortunate ability to have been able to  _see_  the creature to kick it in the first place, but his mind is too busy whirring at the concept that a thestral dared to wander so close to the castle.

“Wait – we have a  _thestral herd_ at Hogwarts? They’re carnivorous, aren’t they?”

Rukia rolls her  _don’t you know anything_  expression at him.

 _Clearly not_ , Ichigo shrugs back.

“They’ve been tamed not to eat students, if that’s what you’re wondering,” says the petite woman, smacking him lightly with the back of her hand. “Muggle Studies professors are an entirely different matter though…”

“Oh shut up,” Ichigo teases, scowling at her smug expression. “Professor Dumbledore would have warned me if I was in any likelihood of getting eaten by a thestral.”

“You think so.”

“Yeah, he would have put it right there in the small print –  _if you see a scaly, black, freakishly bony pegasus charging towards you, run like hell._ ”

Rukia snorts a laugh that promptly results in Madame Pomfrey ordering them out of the Hospital Wing, and they scamper with tails between their legs, laughing. Ichigo would rather face the thestral than the angry Healer any day, and he tells the raven-haired witch such when the hospital doors swing shut behind them.

“They are quite beautiful creatures, aren’t they?” Rukia considers as they fall in line, walking aimlessly through the castle.

“I guess so,” Ichigo agrees, having never really pondered the thought before. The mystic, unnatural nature of the thestral doesn’t come up in conversation much, not when there’s a more common, far more sinister association with the creatures.

He finds it difficult to appreciate their beauty. Their appearance isn’t usually on his mind whenever he comes across one.

“I wish they were still invisible,” he sighs, admitting his thoughts aloud more to himself that to Rukia, but aware that she hears them all the same.

She says nothing in response, but Ichigo knows that she understands.

 

 

Ichigo is too engrossed in stunning the haywire toaster jumping around the desk spitting sparks and shards of metal to think much of Kyoraku’s message that there’s somebody at the door, but seconds before the toaster gives a violent shudder and starts to glow a frightening, fiery crimson, Renji walks into the room. Ichigo has just enough time to warn his friend of the impending danger with a flash of panic across his expression, before the appliance  _erupts_  into a smoking ball of thunder and lightning, scorching everything unfortunate enough to be anxiously watching nearby.

This  _would_  include Ichigo, except there’s a bark of  _Protego!_  from the doorway and the explosion rebounds away from him, leaving the ginger wizard unscathed as he tumbles away from the desk, coughing smoke from his lungs.

“The  _hell_  are you doing?” Renji snaps, yanking Ichigo behind him. Without waiting for a reply from the spluttering wizard, the Alchemy professor casts the flame-freezing charm to reduce the damage and then mutters  _Aguamenti_ and  _Reparo_  in quick succession. The toaster hisses, steaming sizzling around the room, and then shakes and trembles under the force of the second spell, but does little to put itself back together.

“Thank god I bought spares this time,” Ichigo grumbles, scowling at the remains of the toaster with a reproachful expression. He coughs once more and then adds with a reluctant sigh; “ _Evanesco_.”

The toaster vanishes, but the dark mark on the desk remains.

“Damn,” says Ichigo, removing the damage with a swish of his wand. “I almost got it to work that time.”

Renji makes a disbelieving noise, still holding his wand ready in case anything else decides to explode. “It almost blew your face off.”

“Well, yeah, but it did  _something_. Most of the time it just sits there until I poke it. I didn’t think harnessing magic and electricity would be so difficult – the castle’s resistance to Muggle appliances is stronger than I expected.”

“Is there no other way of going about bringing your ridiculous metal boxes to life?” Renji asks, eyeing the replacement toaster that Ichigo levitates towards him with a suspicious glare.

“Not that I can think of – unless you happen to know where any plug sockets are lying around by any chance?”

The toaster plonks down onto the desk in perfect imitation of its predecessor. Ichigo wonders if he should surround it in a  _Protego_  bubble  _before_  it gives any indication that it might erupt into flames, but thinks better of it when he realises the extra magic could cause even more problems.

Rolling his eyes at the question, Renji warily pockets his wand. “I have no idea what  _plug sockets_  are.”

“My point exactly,” says Ichigo. He hums at the toaster and scratches his neck thoughtfully. His supply of appliances isn’t endless, and it takes a while to order them up to the castle. They’re not exactly things he can easily acquire by owl post after all – or Muggle post, for that matter, since Hogwarts technically doesn’t exist to the average Muggle postal worker. He supposes he could ask them to leave it at the closest Muggle village, but then he would have to endure Scotland’s winter to trek down the hillside and collect it.

Casting lightweight charms on a crate full of toasters and then walking up a mountain with them might be a little suspicious.

“Well – what about alchemy?”

Ichigo turns towards his friend and considers his inquiring expression. It’s amusing to think that Renji considers him so adept. “Right,” the Muggle Studies professor replies, shaking his head at the suggestion. “Like I know anything about  _alchemy_.”

Renji raises his eyebrows so high that his tattoos seem to disappear into his hairline.

“What?” says Ichigo.

The  _I can’t believe you_  look that the redhead stares at him with is definitely one he picked up from Rukia. “You could – oh, I don’t know –  _ask_. ‘Hey Renji, isn’t it funny that you just so happen to teach  _Alchemy_?’ ‘Oh yeah, very funny Ichigo. You know, I  _never would have guessed_.’”

Ichigo blinks. “I forgot you were clever,” he says.

Renji vanishes the toaster, and then the desk that Ichigo is leaning on. The quills, crockery, and essays that were stacked upon the surface appear to hover in the air for a second, as if in denial about their sudden awakening, and then scatter and smash across the floor. Ichigo yelps a laugh as he follows suit, collapsing into the puddle of tea and broken china.

He curses at Renji as he whispers healing charms, carefully reducing the sting of his hands. The Alchemy professor does nothing to help, but Ichigo knows he deserved it. Riling up the tattooed man is one of his favourite pastimes though, so he only feels mildly irritated as he repairs the teacup and plate and levitates them somewhere safe. The dampness of his knees is quickly fixed by a hot-air charm, but un-vanishing the desk and toaster is another matter altogether.

“I needed those,” Ichigo whines, heaving himself up to cast a lost expression at the space where the desk used to be.

Unsympathetic, Renji grins. “Just transfigure another one, idiot. And didn’t you say you had  _spare_  toast-things?”

“Not that many,” Ichigo mutters, taking his friend’s advice and transfiguring the two cardboard boxes in the corner into a great oak counter. It will have to do as a temporary solution until he can salvage another desk, preferably from Renji’s quarters. “I’m still blowing them up.”

“That’s because you’re stupid,” says Renji, heaving one of the extra toasters onto the new desk. He grabs a piece of parchment and a quill, and draws something that Ichigo can only describe as a really awkward circle. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll try and devise an alchemic circle for it.”

“It’s that easy?”

“Well, no. Circles have layers – kind of like buildings. If you have rubbish foundations then the whole thing falls apart, and there are certain things you just can’t put together – you wouldn’t put a roof on without building any walls first, would you? But if you know what kind of magic you want, you can break it down and put it back together into a form that suits you – one that’s easier to manipulate and control.”

Unsure if he understands the mechanics of such a process, Ichigo nods. “So, if I wanted to get this toaster to run on an electric-like form of magic, could you do that?”

Renji shrugs as if the prospect isn’t awe-inspiring. The magic school that Ichigo had attended is hugely competitive and highly renowned, but the subject options for students are limited. The core subjects during his time there had only consisted of Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms (although he thinks that’s different now), and the elective classes available to Ichigo had almost been as limited. He had chosen History of Magic, Arithmancy, and Latin, and then studied English and Healing Magic in his own time.

“Probably,” Renji answers, his voice a gruff acknowledgment. He taps the quill against the desk, thoughts of a science beyond Ichigo’s current knowledge running through his head. “Making sure it doesn’t blow up is the hard part, but you already know that. Want me to give it a shot, or do you want to try?”

Ichigo gives his friend a sceptical look. “You trust me with alchemic magic?”

It only takes Renji a second to correct himself. “…Yeah okay, fair enough. Budge over and let’s give this a whirl.”

The first attempt encourages the toaster to do little more than creak ominously. Not one to be deterred, Renji continues scribbling onto the parchment, the diagram becoming ever complicated as he mutters to himself. Ichigo listens attentively whenever his friend tries to explain what he’s doing, asking questions at the right moments and pulling blank expressions at the wrong ones. The second attempt is little more successful than the first, so Ichigo figures he might as well do something useful and makes a start on his fourth year essays:  _Was Spaceflight Really Worth It_? Settling into the armchair by the window to stay clear of Renji’s alchemic magic, the Muggle Studies professor laughs his way through the subsequent hour of marking, occasionally providing refreshments when Renji’s muttering degrades into grumbles.

Eventually the appliance begins emitting hot, electrical sounds; snaps and cracks of light fizzle around the room, but after a second, the toaster seems to think better of it and goes abruptly silent. Renji fist-pumps the air and cheers his success, but Ichigo, peering over the only essay so far that hasn’t caused him to seriously doubt his career path, merely shoots the toaster a wary glance.

“Sparks are usually a good sign that it’s going to explode,” he says.

Renji looks unconcerned. “Nah, it’s fine! I think I’ve got the basic layer down now – I just have to fine-tune it so that the magic is contained inside. Shouldn’t take much longer now.”

“Uh-huh,” Ichigo replies, cringing when another alchemic circle lights up and the toaster shudders dangerously. “Whatever you say. If this goes horribly wrong, don’t blame me.”

The redhead laughs and jabs the tip of his wand in Ichigo’s direction, as if trying to cast a spell that will assure him of their accomplishment. “It won’t  _go wrong_. Don’t you have any faith in me?”

“That’s the problem. I know you, Renji, and this is going to end in disaster.”

It does.

The resulting explosion isn’t large enough to set off the castle’s safety systems, but the entire study in engulfed in a thick, black smog as the toaster combusts, spitting fire and glass and screaming with a voice that sounds oddly like Ichigo’s as he roars _I told you Renji, I TOLD YOU!_  The two wizards splutter their way through protective spells; too late to do much good, their  _Protegos_  merely make fleeing the burning study more difficult. From the other room, Zangetsu and Shiro squawk their concern, and the empty paintings lost in the grisly haze flicker with movement as the two Japanese guards rush to inspect the damage.

Blindly, Ichigo shouts  _Evanesco_ , and hopes to hell he hasn’t just vanished his idiotic friend, but then there’s a crash and a laugh, and the room abruptly calms as the smouldering toaster disappears into the void. The last of the smoke erupts upwards and pours from the windows, leaving behind the scarred wreckage of Ichigo’s study. The desk and chair are charred, splatters of fire decorate the far wall, and the floorboards continue to smoke, but luckily Renji is standing off to one side, coughing and hacking through the shock of the explosion.

“Holy shit,” he blurts, wheezing. “Holy actual shit.”

Ichigo is about to shout something fuelled by anger and disbelief in reply, but then he catches sight of his friend’s pale face and has to flop back into his chair from laughing so hard.

“Oh my god Ichigo, your  _room_ ,” Renji huffs, shaking splinters of wood from his robes. “Dude, that toaster packed a punch – and why are you laughing?”

Unable to do anything but point and look like a seal, Ichigo gasps, “ _Renji_!”

“What?”

“Oh my god –  _oh my god_ Renji!  _Jesus_ , you have to –  _shit_!”

“ _What_?”

“You don’t have any eyebrows!”

“ _WHAT_?” Rough, tingling hands smack against a tattooed forehead in denial. They search futilely, scrabbling against skin. “My fucking eyebrows! Shit – do you have any hair growth potions? I can’t go around looking like this – stop laughing, this isn’t funny! Do you have any potions or not?”

“ _No_!” Ichigo wheezes, doubling over. “But you can get them at –!”

“ _I am not going to Professor Snape’s stores without any eyebrows_!”

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Ichigo tries to imagine the scene; Renji, tiptoeing through the dark of the dungeons, hands plastered across his forehead to protect his dignity. He would look left, right, and then left again before knocking on the Potions Master’s quarters, and then spend the entire minute before the professor reluctantly opens his door trying to convince himself not to flee.

Ichigo can see Professor Snape’s expression clearly in his mind; terrifying and sharp, and alight with an unnatural glow from the potion boiling away in the back of his quarters. He can hear the professor’s voice too; deep and tired from cursing at Gryffindors, and filled with a sigh as he beckons the eyebrow-less professor inside.

“We’re going to Professor Snape’s stores,” Ichigo announces, hoping the real thing will just be as entertaining as his imagination.

“We are  _not_ ,” Renji grumbles.

Ichigo could probably brew the necessary potion without much trouble – he doesn’t know the exact difference between Professor Snape’s and Kisuke Urahara’s skills, but he would bet it’s not much – but Renji doesn’t need to know that.

He grins.

Renji groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came into being simply because I wanted Professor-of-Astronomy!Toshiro :3
> 
> Please leave a comment as you go! :)
> 
> I will post the next chapter on Sunday 7th Dec.


	2. The Potions Master

The Christmas break is a welcome relief. Ichigo loves his job just as much as any other professor (except Professor Snape maybe – that man’s intentions are questionable, and Ichigo doesn’t want to ask) but living in an environment surrounded by hundreds of hormonal teenagers and teenagers-to-be is taxing. He’s glad to be one of the professors boarding the train back to London with most of the student body – while staying at the castle would be more convenient, Ichigo misses his family.

Before he can return to his family home in Japan, a stop at his London apartment is required. It’s a Muggle building and thus he has a Muggle contract for the rent, but the property owner has entirely forgotten who’s living there. In fact, Ichigo can’t say that he’s paying for the apartment the _Muggle way_ , because to the average non-magical person the building doesn’t even exist anymore. He _had_ paid the landlord for his troubles before wiping the apartment from the map, and now it acts as Ichigo’s holiday home, sitting under a stasis spell for whenever he’s not around.

Ichigo does feel a little bad about it. London properties aren’t exactly cheap, and for the most part the apartment is wasted in his tenancy. Still, it serves the job that Ichigo needs, and that will just have to do.

He doesn’t spend long in London – just one night to arrange travels to Japan, and by the morning he is flooing to the portkey point near Covent Garden to find the wizard wearing a ridiculous top hat with the English flat printed across it. His luggage shrunk in his pockets and his two owls already on their own journey to Karakura, Ichigo thanks the wizard and accepts the portkey – some magazine or paper of a sort, although Ichigo only has a few seconds to check it before he’s being condensed and squished and sucked across the world.

It only lasts a moment, but he hates it just the same.

The witch on the other end ushers him away from the landing point before the next portkey arrives, although Ichigo knows that the next one isn’t expected for another twenty minutes. He follows her instructions anyway, fighting back the urge to be sick, and stumbles past the Healer standing by checking the people who have yet to master the art of landing for bruises.

Once he has collected himself and checked that all his belongings are still with him, Ichigo closes his eyes and turns on the spot, thinking of home.

He Apparates.

Karakura looks as it always does at six o’clock in the evening; alight with a thousand homes, their families settling down for dinner, and the streets slowly emptying as people return from work. Unlike Hogsmeade Village, Karakura Town is a blend of Muggle and magic citizens, although the former are still mostly unaware of the latter. Just in the outskirts of the town is the Wizarding School that Ichigo attended, but similar to Hogwarts it is warded from unwelcome and disbelieving approach. Over the rooftops it reaches up towards the sky, and though it is a modern building without Hogwarts’ great history, Ichigo is proud to see it watching over the town in the distance.

Perhaps he should pay it a visit while he is here. He’ll be happy to see some of his old professors again.

The Kurosaki family home is situated in the district of Minamikawase. It’s a bit of a trek from the Apparition point, but Ichigo tucks his Muggle coat around him to protect from the chill and finds he doesn’t mind the journey down memory lane. Not even a year has passed since he was in Japan, but it has been far longer since his last extended stay in Karakura. Ichigo didn’t realise how much he would miss it, but that doesn’t change how glad he is to have accepted the teaching post in Scotland. Wandering the world has always been in nature, and he knows that staying restricted to teaching in Japan would have driven him crazy. Life in Hogwarts is different – the British culture is a shock to his system – but he enjoys it.

If nothing else, the fundaments of magic are consistent across that world, and that is enough to make Ichigo feel at home.

New Year isn’t due for another few weeks, but Ichigo can tell that his father has already begun to clean the house in preparation for the new beginning. Their family doesn’t celebrate Christmas like the European staff of Hogwarts do, but his colleagues and friends had poked and prodded him into exchanging presents on the last day of term, and Ichigo figured including his family on the shopping list wouldn’t do any harm.

Isshin, at any least, won’t turn away presents. Ichigo’s sisters will probably feel guilty for not getting their brother anything in return, but Ichigo doesn’t care about that. Giving gifts is the better half of Christmas anyway.

Stepping around the bin bags and boxes lining the path up to the front door, Ichigo knocks on the door. It opens upon contact with his knuckles, magic pulsing along his skin in greeting, and from somewhere inside the building there is a yelp and thunderous feet stampeding across the floor.

Rolling his eyes, Ichigo slips off his shoes and steps back just in time to avoid his father’s boisterous kick. Hollering at the top of his lungs, the bearded, dark haired version of Ichigo sails through the front door and crashes into the snow, squawking madly. Ichigo pulls his wand from his pocket and sends a stinging hex out after him; Isshin throws himself out of the way and rolls back into the house, wielding his own wand like a fencing foil to try and force his son to retreat into the kitchen.

Ichigo levels his father with an unimpressed stare and refuses to budge.

“Giving up already, my son?” Isshin taunts, waggling his eyebrows.

“As if,” says the professor, snorting at the suggestion. “I was just thinking – why should I waste my time play-fighting with you when someone else can do it for me?”

Isshin blinks and lowers his wand a fraction, looking puzzled.

Ichigo pockets his wand and stuffs his hands into his jacket with an exaggerated motion, daring his father to advance. The man doesn’t – not that Ichigo expected he would – and just as Isshin starts to question his son’s odd behaviour, Shiro dives in through the open door and promptly bombards the unsuspecting wizard with untameable wings of snow and unruly war-cry shrieks.

Isshin shrieks back.

Aware that his father will enact revenge for that later, Ichigo follows Zangetsu’s graceful swoop further into the house to unpack while he can. Behind him, the doctor and eagle owl continue to scuffle, both screeching half-amused noises of battle, and Ichigo feels absolutely no guilt about leaving them to decide the victor on their own.

They’ll both survive to tell the tale.

…Probably.

 

 

After helping his (marginally wounded and covered in plasters) father do some more cleaning the next morning, Ichigo Apparates over to the entrance of Karakura’s Wizarding School. The term there doesn’t end for another week or so, and, to his surprise, the wards grant Ichigo access despite him not officially being one of the hundreds of students running around the corridors anymore. Deciding it only polite to announce himself to the Headmaster despite being aware that his presence is probably already known, Ichigo weaves through the hallways and ascends the first staircase he comes across – they don’t move on their own accord here, and he finds himself missing Hogwarts’ oddity.

Headmaster Yamamoto barely glances up from his desk when Ichigo pokes his head around the office door and says,

“Heya old man!”

“I figured it would be you,” grumbles the elderly man, dipping his brush in the inkwell by his elbow. Unbelievably long and strikingly magnificent, his eyebrows seem to sigh as Ichigo offers a little wave. The ancient wrinkles upon Yamamoto’s forehead deepen and his eyes, tiny but wise, roll at the youthful cheeriness Ichigo presents.

“Do try and cause as little havoc as possible during your visit,” the Headmaster sighs.

Ichigo laughs sheepishly and abides to the dismissive cue, but then remembers the other reason he decided to drop in on the Headmaster and pokes his head back around the doorframe.

“Oh, Kyoraku-san’s and Ukitake-san’s portraits say _hi_ by the way.”

He shuts the door on Yamamoto’s response. His knowledge of his portraits’ relationship with the elderly wizard is limited, but Ichigo can tell it’s not one he should trespass on.

The bell signalling the end of the second period rings overhead as Ichigo jogs up to the highest floor of the building. He ducks himself into the corner of the stairwell as students stampede past, chatting about classwork or the latest trend, their arms and bags overflowing with textbooks. It’s the first break period, if Ichigo remembers rightly, so as soon as it is safe to continue his journey, he flies to the Potions classroom before the professor can disappear.

Kisuke Urahara has a habit of being taxingly difficult to locate. If he’s not in his office or lab then he literally could be anyway on the _entire planet_ , and if he _is_ in his lab – well. Ichigo has fought many losing battles trying to get the scientific wizard to pause in his work. Kisuke is nothing if not dedicated to his research and potion making, and while Ichigo admires that, it _is_ a challenging obstacle to overcome when he simply wants to talk to the infuriating dusty-haired man.

Sometimes Ichigo has to resort to drastic measures.

The entrance to the Potions classroom is as plain as ever. From the outside, the room wears a façade – seeming essentially to be a simple, Muggle classroom, a wooden sign hangs upon the door announcing _Potions_ , spelt wrong, crossed out with a biro and replaced with a curly, neater handwriting. The sign has never changed in all of Ichigo’s time at the school, and he flips it over just to make sure, laughing when he sees _Urahara is a workaholic bastard_ written on the back in his own handwriting.

Their relationship hadn’t strictly been as formal as the expected teacher-student one by Ichigo’s last year, but it had never been _inappropriate_. It had made his life that much more interesting at any least, and Ichigo can happily say that his final year Potions project had been the best piece of work he has ever produced.

Once he had succeeded in forcing Kisuke to work with him, of course.

The door creaks open then at the sound of his laughter, and a pair of huge, purple eyes peer around the wooden frame. Despite only being able to see a fraction of her dark plum hair and timid expression, Ichigo offers a smile down at Ururu as she lifts her gaze to inspect him. There is a moment when the young girl simply stares at him, absorbing his Muggle attire and flaming, gold hair, and then the door flings open in welcome.

“Kurosaki-san!” Ururu squeaks, throwing herself at him.

Laughing, Ichigo opens his arms and lets her tackling hug engulf him. “Heya Ururu! You’ve gotten tall – I hope Kisuke has been looking after you.”

“Urahara-san is very kind!” she says, nodding frantically. She presses her nose into his stomach, clinging tightly. Her physical strength is far greater than Ichigo’s, but Ururu has long since learned to control her movements. Ichigo still cannot hold back a huff of surprise at her grip, and he quickly pats her head to give assurance that he’s not hurt.

“Kisuke is a lot of things, but _kind_ isn’t the first thing that comes to mind,” Ichigo replies. His tone is light and understanding, but that doesn’t make his statement any less true. The Potions Master has had his moments of questionable morality and motives. Ichigo was quick to learn that Kisuke Urahara is a complicated man, but the workaholic wizard has his redeeming traits. It just takes a while to uncover them, that’s all.

Before Ururu can hastily deny, there is a yelp and another crack of the door, and Ichigo looks up to see Kisuke’s second young apprentice standing in the doorway. Jinta has grown into his early teenager years since Ichigo last saw him; his scarlet hair is enough to rival Renji’s, and instead of his usual Muggle jeans and t-shirt combination, now he is wearing something similar to wizarding robes. The sleeves appear to be missing though, and this only serves to emphasis the boy’s irritation as he crosses his arms.

“Oi, Ururu, you’re meant to be cleaning the classroom. Stop hugging random people and get back inside before I… I…”

He trails off, lifting his gaze from the girl’s nervous expression to where Ichigo is grinning down at him. Swallowing, Jinta rubs the back of his neck and kicks the ground, and then sticks in jaw out in a hormonal defiance.

Ichigo laughs. “Things haven’t changed around here, have they?”

The two apprentices share a glance.

“Urahara-san is lonelier now,” Ururu mutters.

Jinta squawks. “Don’t tell him that!” he barks, looking tempted to reach over and grab the girl by the ends of her hair. The fact that Ichigo is standing there is probably the only thing that prevents him from doing so, and the ginger wizard rolls his eyes at the familiarity of the scene.

“Lonely, huh?” he says, raising his eyebrows at the teenagers. “I better go and say _hi_ then, you think?”

They share another look and then nod somewhat sheepishly, scurrying back inside. Ichigo follows them in, sliding the door shut behind him, hearing the sign rattling with the movement. The Potions classroom is laid out in much the same fashion as Professor Snape’s domain back at Hogwarts, except where that room is shadowed by the gloom of the dungeons and cold all year round due to the shivering of the student’s fear, the classroom at Karakura is the opposite. Located at the top of the building, Kisuke’s classroom is large and cramped, but natural light streams in through the great windows along the far wall, giving it a warm, inviting atmosphere. Textbooks and ingredients are far easier to identify in the morning shine, and Ichigo had never had a problem trying to read the chalkboard when seated at the back table. In contrast, the work surfaces are dark, indestructible blocks spread out across the room, each large enough to fit four cauldrons and an array of knives, jars, and dry ingredients. Currently a neon orange liquid is splattered across them all, some of it still bubbling away from the heat of the flames just extinguished from the class. Ichigo weaves through the desks to the back of the classroom, but he mutters the vanishing charm to assist with the cleaning as he passes, just in case Kisuke had the students brewing something dangerous.

He doubts it, but better to be safe than sorry in a Potions lab.

Looking as if it’s barely a moment away from crumbling into the floor, the door at the back of the classroom is in a sorry state. Although designed to look similar to the sliding doors that mark the entrance to the classrooms throughout the school, Ichigo knows thick, nearly impenetrable layers of protective magic reinforce the entrance to Kisuke’s private labs. Even so, the edges of the wood have been battered and bruised throughout the years, and the entire frame seems as if one gentle push would be enough to prompt decay. Knowing better than to doubt Kisuke’s spell work, Ichigo taps his wand against the frame, wondering if his magical signature is still entwined in the security layer.

The door opens for him.

Ichigo is unable to hide his surprise, and as he steps into Kisuke’s labs it feels as if he is a student again, thrown back in time to drag his mentor away from whatever ridiculous experiment he is in the process of destroying.

In comparison to the classroom, the laboratory is small and dimly light. On one side, there is a desk, piled high with research papers, wizarding journals, and books, and on the other is another brewing worktop, this one glowing amber from the heat of the fire beneath the cauldron. About the cauldron is an explosion of jars and boxes – unlabelled, open, or merely pushed to one side in disinterest – and balancing precariously over the edge of the counter is a set of scales. Toxic-coloured mist wafts up from the cauldron, forming a haze across the ceiling. It continues to swirl and tempest around the globes of light hovering above him, tucked into the low ceiling and reminding Ichigo of the solar system model that adorns the centre of Hogwarts’ Astronomy classroom.

Aware that Kisuke’s labs are far more dangerous than Tōshirō’s mini meteor showers, Ichigo keeps his wand out as he strides over to the cauldron. He dares not touch anything with his hands, but he casts a _Lumos_ over the closest book to see if it can reveal exactly what Kisuke is brewing.

A quiet, happy greeting distracts him, and Ichigo glances down to where the sleek, black cat is rubbing itself against his legs. Golden eyes stare up at him as the feline starts to purr; Ichigo smiles down at it as he recalls the feeling of the cat’s warmth when it used to curl up in his lap, both of them bored with waiting for Kisuke to unbury himself from his work, and gives the creature a quick pat.

“Hello Yoruichi,” he says to her. “Is Kisuke around?”

The cat meows and continues winding around his legs, forcing Ichigo to remain stationary. Taking that as a good sign for Kisuke’s imminent company, Ichigo casts _Nox_ and scoops up the cat, rubbing his fingers under her chin. Yoruichi purrs louder and paws at his chest, getting comfortable for what she assumes it going to be a long stay.

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure Kisuke has classes to teach today. I can’t stick around too long. You know what he’s like when people get under his feet.”

Yoruichi smacks him with her paw and rolls her extravagant eyes towards him. “But he likes it when it’s you,” she says in a distinctly human voice, her tail swishing from between his arms. “He’s missed you.”

“That’s what Ururu said,” Ichigo adds.

The cat laughs at him. “See? Plus, Kisuke’s much easier to handle when you’re here. Lately he’s been dabbling in some odd magic – I think it’s the withdrawal symptoms expressing themselves in weird ways.”

“I haven’t been his student for over _five years_.”

“It’s a late-onset,” Yoruichi replies a-matter-of-factly, stretching her little limbs. “We both know that Kisuke never does anything in the _standard_ way. In fact, you should see what he’s trying to brew at the moment – I spent _months_ trying to bring together all of the ingredients.”

Ichigo groans a customary _oh god_. “I take it I’m not going to like it?”

Something smashes in the storeroom. Yoruichi laughs at Ichigo’s unenthusiastic tone and leaps down from his arms, slinking off to inspect whatever Kisuke has just broken. Ichigo would follow, but Yoruichi is the saner of the wizarding duo and he takes her advice to heart, preparing himself for something dreadful.

What emerges from the storeroom is only half of what Ichigo expects. Wearing an expression of downcast misery beneath the brim of his stripy hat, the blonde wizard that tumbles into the laboratory scans his gaze straight past Ichigo in his haste to reach the cauldron. Carrying what appears to be a glass jar containing something impossibly dark, the wizard shuffles over to the counter with an uncharacteristically slow, sluggish movement and sets the object down, Yoruichi’s black form trailing along behind him.

Ichigo is about to open his mouth and enquire after the Potions Master’s gloom, except something else slips out of the storeroom then, glowing with moonlight and as silent as the fall of the evening. It’s another cat, but where Yoruichi is the subtly of the shadows, this one is beautifully white and as bright as a star. It also doesn’t appear to have any fur, and instead its body swirls and swishes like a thousand threads of light weaved together; slightly transparent, the cat curls around Kisuke’s feet and turns wide, silver eyes towards Ichigo, meowing.

Ichigo stares at the cat for a long while, and then lifts his gaze to where his mentor is prying the extensive black strip of fabric from the jar, looking wretched.

“Told you,” Yoruichi singsongs.

If Kisuke notices his companion talking to someone but him, he gives no indication as he carefully pulls the fabric apart and drops part of it into the concoction. The rest flops in the pair of tongs, but while Kisuke keeps his hand incredibly still, the fabric in his grasp starts to sway of its own accord, seeming to reach with spindly fingers towards the cauldron.

The cat patronus tilts its head.

Yoruichi meows, trying to attract Kisuke’s attention as Ichigo’s expression darkens.

“ _Kisuke Urahara, are you keeping dementor cloaks in your storeroom?_ ”

“Oh, not just the cloaks,” replies the wizard absentmindedly, carefully screwing the remains of the cloak back into the jar. The potion is slowly becoming a deep violet as it bubbles away, and Kisuke stirs it anticlockwise as he flips over a page in his notes.

“You should see the fingers,” Yoruichi adds. “Kisuke, show Ichigo the fingers.”

“Fingers?” the other hums, blinking lethargically. “Oh, yes, um –”

The blonde mop of hair snaps up so fast that Kisuke’s hat tumbles from his head and plonks down atop the patronus. Nonplussed, the cat merely sits there, the green and white stripes obscuring its view.

(Scowling fiercely, Ichigo casts a quick stasis charm on the cauldron to preserve his mentor’s ludicrous efforts).

“Ichigo!” Kisuke blurts, reaching up to lift the brim of his hat and looking startled when he cannot find it. He searches around for it, almost tripping over his patronus in his haste. “What are you – how long have you been standing there?”

“Dementors,” Ichigo repeats, his voice cold. “ _Dementors_ Kisuke – what the _hell_ –?”

“Ah,” says the Potions Master, looking abashed at his ex-student’s tone. “Well –”

“– and you’re _adding them to your potion!_ This whole room is going to be filled with one massive smog of despair, Kisuke – for god’s sake your _classroom_ is next door and your desk is literally just over _there_ –”

“It’s –”

“Say _fine_ and I’ll punch you in the face, _I swear to god_. You’ve already had to cast a patronus for _fuck’s sake Kisuke_ , what the _hell_ are you even trying to brew?”

“Ichigo –”

“What could be so important that you have to mess around with _dementors_ of all things? You shut yourself in your room for hours at a time – you can’t tell me there won’t be consequences, Kisuke – _side effects_ –”

“Ichigo, I think you need to cast a patronus –”

“– Fuck off, I’m not done lecturing you and your stupid brain – and you know I don’t like my patronus you moron, but that wouldn’t matter if you weren’t _thick_ enough to do something so _ridiculous_. What about all those times you told me not to play around with dangerous ingredients – you wouldn’t even let me touch a Peruvian Vipertooth tooth because they’re so venomous, yet here you are _wrecking yourself_ –”

He takes a deep breath to relieve the burning anger in his chest, and Kisuke takes that moment to alight the room by casting a cheering charm; it fizzles pink from his wand and splatters into the fury of Ichigo’s expression, morphing the professor’s sharp intake of air into a snort of laughter.

The abrupt divergence in his intentions stuns Ichigo to such a degree that he completely forgets the next part of his rant. He opens his mouth, feels a grin overtake him, and then clamps his jaw shut again to fight it off, scowling at his mentor’s embarrassment.

“Please,” says Kisuke, emphasising the word so that it sounds like _sorry_ as he counters the charm. “Cast a patronus.”

Although his scowl deepens as his anger returns, Ichigo complies. “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

He thinks of Karakura, his father and his sisters; their expressions when they eventually arrive. He thinks of New Year’s preparations, visiting his school again, and hugging Ururu. He thinks of Kisuke’s stupefied expression and the dementor cloak in his potion…

The Potions Master doesn’t look surprised when the spell produces nothing more than a flicker of sunlight; a _Lumos_ spell, but briefer, less brilliant. He doesn’t apologise at his student’s misfortune (because he’s _Kisuke Urahara_ ), but Ichigo can see it plain across his face.

Ichigo sighs and thinks of Hogwarts this time; of Renji and Rukia and butterbeer, of Kyoraku and Ukitake sharing stories with him into the early hours of the morning, and of Tōshirō’s insistence on being called _Professor Hitsugaya_ and his expression when Ichigo consistently refuses to…

“ _Expecto Patronum_!”

As beautiful as ugly will allow, and as white as the darkness of sorrow, grief, and death, the thestral patronus takes its place at Ichigo’s side; as tall as he, its great head nudges the wizard’s shoulder, and as it unfolds a skeletal wing to stretch from wall to wall, its bright shadow engulfs Ichigo’s despair.

“Happy?” he asks his mentor, ignoring the thestral’s attempt at nibbling his robes.

“Delighted,” Kisuke replies, looking anything but. The shadows under his eyes have lessened in the glow of Ichigo’s patronus, but his countenance is still weighted with hardship from his prolonged exposure to the dementor’s adverse effects. “And you?”

“Peachy,” Ichigo grumbles in the same tone, feeling exhaustion pulling down his shoulders.

The mentor and student glance at each other through the brilliant radiance of their patronuses and start to laugh.

 

 

“Here,” Kisuke says, throwing a massive slab of chocolate across the classroom to where Ichigo is rummaging through the equipment cupboard. “Eat all of it or Healer Unohana _will_ have my head. As will your father, but he’s far less frightening.”

“ _God_ ,” Ichigo says, mumbling through a mouthful of the sweet as he levitates a cauldron onto the back counter. “Does she still stalk the Hospital Wing with that _I-will-transfigure-you-into-a-single-celled-organism_ smile?”

“She does,” the Potions Master agrees with a nod, prompting laughter from the ginger wizard. “Professor Zaraki has yet to best her at a duel, but he is the only one still willing to try.”

Ichigo shakes his head at his mentor’s words, imagining Kenpachi Zaraki’s manic smile as he loses once again to the renowned Healer. Retsu Unohana can beat anybody into the ground with her hands tied, and Ichigo has never met – and knows he never will meet – a witch or wizard more adept at healing magic than her. Healer Unohana’s apprentices are good, but they’re not the stuff that boggarts are made of.

After setting a beaker, stirring rod, and chopping board onto the table, Ichigo pulls the potions book floating by his head out of the air and flicks through it until he reaches the concoction that Kisuke is about to teach his seventh years – or attempt to teach, considering the difficulty level of the brew.

“ _Draught of Living Death_ , right?” he asks, peering over the huge ingredients list. “You want me to start before they get here?”

Kisuke is too busy scribbling said ingredients list onto the chalkboard from memory to give a verbal response, but Ichigo has known the man long enough to be able to translate his various hand motions. Adding the textbook to the growing pile of equipment, Ichigo _Accios_ a few more things from the cupboards behind him and then lights the base of a cauldron with a muttered spell. Most of the necessary apparatus is now spread out around him, and the rest is hopefully in the store cupboard back in Kisuke’s private lab. Sighing, because that means returning to the dementor-infected room to where Kisuke’s potion has been left to brew, Ichigo turns to the gigantic thestral shining somewhere in the corner of his vision, and sighs again when he spots it with its head stuck in one of the pewter cauldrons.

“Genius,” he mumbles, hoping patronuses aren’t meant to be an accurate reflection of their wizard or witch’s soul.

Kisuke’s smirk suggests otherwise.

When Ichigo returns from the storeroom to enquire about the location of his mentor’s silver dagger, his thestral trotting along behind him (thankfully free from the cauldron), his query is met with a series of startled stares from the group of seventh years who have just walked in. Unaware of the commotion, the large patronus sticks its head out of the doorway and huffs into Ichigo’s hair, and Ichigo nearly drops the jar of Valerian root in surprise.

“Err, professor,” one of the seventh years begins, shooting the Potions Master a wary glance. “There’s – err – a man and a horse in your labs…”

“I believe the term is _thestral_ , but thank you, I am aware,” Kisuke says to the student, and then, lifting an amused expression to the back of the room, he adds, “I’m afraid I don’t have it anymore, I broke it a few weeks ago. There’s a dagger on my desk you can use though. I think I’m currently using it as a rather nifty paperweight…?”

Ducking back into the storeroom at the instructions, Ichigo has to smile. The seventh years continue to give his patronus odd looks (in fact, some look rather horrified now that they know exactly what is it, and Ichigo can sympathise), but he doesn’t care.

He’s missed being Kisuke’s student.

The class goes as well as any seventh year class can. Ichigo has used Kisuke’s classroom during lesson time to brew his own potions before, but he has never been privileged enough to witness a seventh year class when he’s not actually one of the students in it. It’s odd, watching them struggle in the same aspects as Ichigo had, but enjoyable. The students’ expressions when they see his perfectly brewed _Draught of Living Death_ is one he will savour forever, but their determination to match his ability is what reminds him why he had chosen to become a professor.

Ichigo wants them to succeed.

(He sneaks around the room and helps them when Kisuke isn’t looking, but then Kisuke’s magic is always aware of what’s going on in the room).

(Yoruichi slinking around meowing at random intervals to attract her companion’s attention isn’t much help though).

After assisting the two apprentices with cleaning up the mess (there is little spillage in a seventh year class, but any mistakes that do occur are often more disastrous in nature – one of the cauldrons had half melted across the floor, and only Kisuke’s rapid spell work had prevented it from boiling through the chairs), Ichigo knows he has to say goodbye. Yoruichi hisses when he announces such, but Ichigo promises to keep in contact and to visit again before he returns to Scotland.

“I could probably get my hands on some international floo powder,” the auburn wizard adds, wondering if Professor Dumbledore has any on his mantelpiece. It’s over double the price of national floo powder and the connections between the fireplaces are a pain to set up, but he should be able to manage it. If Professor Dumbledore does have some, then he wouldn’t even have to go through the bother of working it out for himself. “Or I could send Shiro, if you’d prefer.”

“I’d rather you not,” Kisuke confirms, laughing nervously.

“Yeah, for some reason everybody says that.”

Ichigo gives Yoruichi one last fuss, hugs Ururu and ruffles Jinta’s hair, and then he’s off, summoning Kisuke’s favourite hat towards him just before the door closes. The Potions Master yelps and Ichigo laughs, plopping the hat onto his head and escaping before his mentor can ask for it back.

Kisuke doesn’t summon it away from him at any point – Ichigo doesn’t even feel the hat’s slight inclination to return as he exits the school – and that says it all, really.

(Ichigo shrinks the hat upon arriving back home and stuffs it into a transfigured envelope, handing the package to Shiro. He feels rather mean while he does it, but Shiro’s cackling laughter as he bounces from his perch and scrambles through the open window is completely worth it).

(He doubts Kisuke will think so though).

 

 

His sisters arrive at the front door together, from opposite sides of the country, through unconscious synchronisation of their twin-telepathy. Or, that’s what Isshin preaches when he throws open the door and launches himself at his daughters, hugging them fiercely and sobbing into their hair. Yuzu allows him to fuss, patting him and laughing into his shoulder, but Karin channels her brother’s personality and fights their father away, ducking under his elbow and fleeing to find someone who will offer a more sensible greeting.

Ichigo hands her tea when she escapes into the kitchen. The twenty-one year old witch summons the sugar pot towards her and thanks him for the drink, letting a spoon float over to stir the tea. Out in the hallway, Isshin wails a loud, blubbing noise and calls for his runaway daughter, and Karin and Ichigo share a knowing glance.

“You going?” Ichigo asks.

“As if,” his sister replies, pulling the teacup from the air. With a wave of her wand, the sugar returns to the cupboard, and the kettle re-boils for when Isshin finally lets Yuzu venture into the kitchen. “You’ve been away longer than I have so I don’t know why he’s making such a racket.”

“I set Shiro on him,” Ichigo admits without any guilt.

Karin laughs. “Cruel.”

“Effective though.”

She doesn’t argue with that, sipping her tea with an appreciative hum. Ichigo laughs and gives her a nudge as Yuzu drags their father into the kitchen, already lecturing him with the threatening sweetness of her voice and puppy-dog eyes. Karin rolls her eyes and dutifully steps out of the way of her twin’s tirade, nodding in all the right places and feeling no sympathy as Isshin, half-terrified and half-entertained, is told how to look after the house properly.

Ichigo refrains from mentioning that he helped clean up. He doesn’t want Yuzu to be disappointed in him either, but as the hazelnut haired primary school teacher raises her eyebrows as she walks past, he has a feeling that his contribution hasn’t escaped her notice.

It’s a normal day in the Kurosaki household. After the girls have unpacked in their old room (the suggestion that one of them accommodate the space bedroom isn’t even considered) and the house has begun to shift with the new arrivals, laying out Yuzu’s favourite dinner set and restacking the video tapes to suit Karin’s habit of hogging the TV, it feels as if they never left.

Ichigo’s glad. He loves his independence, but family has always been and always will be a vital part of his life. Magic makes it easy for them to stay in contact, and even easier to traverse the world to reach them. In mere seconds he can Apparate from one side of the country to the other, and though he’s never tried, jumping continents at a time is theoretically possible. Portkeys are a far safer option, and even then, they don’t take much longer. He could travel the entire world in a day if he wished, but more importantly, he’s simply one spell away from reaching his family if they ever need him.

Even Yuzu, content in the depths of her Muggle life, has a floo access point in her living room. It rarely sees use however, especially considering she lives with four other (unaware) Muggles in a city apartment, but it’s there for emergencies.

(Her flatmates simply think the fireplace is an old, unusable thing. Ichigo hopes they’ll never find out otherwise).

Isshin comes thundering into the living room then, carrying a stack of board games in his arms. Collectively, the siblings groan at his manic smile as he springs forward and dumps the boxes onto the sofa, hollering about _family tradition_ and _I’ve been practicing my Monopoly skills, my children, so be prepared!_

“How can you even practice _Monopoly_ by yourself?” Karin grumbles, nevertheless setting aside her copy of _The Tales of the Beedle and the Bard_ to humour their father. She immediately digs _Monopoly_ out of the pile and spells the rest to tidy themselves away, resulting in an overexcited cheer from Isshin as he throws himself onto the nearest chair.

Realising that he’s just missed the perfect opportunity to vanish the board games for evermore, Ichigo half-heartedly packs away the essays he’s trying to mark and leans forward to join in. Yuzu has already volunteered to fill in any gaps in his Muggle knowledge (or his students’ knowledge, more importantly, and he has warned her of the extensiveness to said gaps) so playing a few rounds of _Monopoly_ probably won’t hurt anybody.

Well. Muggle _Monopoly_ probably wouldn’t.

 _Wizarding_ board games, on the other hand, aren’t usually classified as _happy family games that can be played before bedtime_.

‘Go to Jail’ spaces result in magical handcuffs, ‘Income Tax’ is screamed by the player’s piece and causes the Banker’s representative to scurry across the board and literally steal the money from metal pockets, and entering Bankruptcy prompts all current pieces to howl sympathetically as the wizard or witch’s properties are smashed into the ground and scattered across the board.

It results in the most frustration version of _Monopoly_ possible, and this only gets worse when Yuzu is playing the Banker. Relentless, innocent, and perceptive, the money that enters her hands never leaves.

She always wins, and every time Isshin erupts into sobs and proclaims about how proud he is as his youngest daughter empties his bank and destroys all of his properties.

They’re an odd family.

 

 

On New Year’s Day itself, Ichigo is woken by the rustle of a small paper kite trying to nest in his hair. Unlike the years of his childhood where Muggle means dominated the house, the kite Isshin has used to wake the household flutters and swoops without any strings, imitating a poorly constructed bird as it follows Ichigo through his morning routine. All thoughts of work and responsibilities pushed aside for the New Year, the family are slow to wake; they had stayed up to witness the year’s first sunrise together, and now tumble to breakfast at an hour closer to afternoon.

Some families have elaborate traditions, but the Kurosaki family like to keep things simple. After breakfast, they visit Masaki’s grave in the January snowfall, lobbing snowballs at each other and scouring untouched patches of ground to make angels. They’re all adults now, but that only makes their creations that much more impressive and their attitudes more competitive. They play the card game _karuta_ long into the evening, and mix butterbeer and firewhiskey with the more traditional servings of rice wine and soups.

On the second day, they visit the local shrines – Ichigo reluctantly digging his full kimono from the bottom of his wardrobe. The largest shrine in the town is their first port of call, and they spend some hours there, enjoying the company of the townspeople and making wishes the omamori amulets. The second shrine is located just behind the first, and although it is just as grand as the former, shrouded by overarching trees and paved with a precision of care and wonder, far less people gather around to offer well wishes for the New Year.

It’s a shrine of the magical world, and the wizards marking the entrance incline their heads as the family pass.

On the third and final day, Isshin’s side of the family join them for dinner. What used to be a large, jubilant family of some of Japan’s most skilful witches and wizards is now just the last of the Shibas; Kukaku and her brother Ganju, Ichigo’s elder cousins. They do not dwell on those they have lost, however, and instead spend the evening partaking in games, eating good food, and showing off their newest creations – inventing spells is a challenging business, but Kukaku has always laughed that somebody has to do it.

And then they rest, recuperate, and return to the lives they have left across the world.

 

 

The first feast of the new term never fails to be a spectacular display of Hogwarts’ greatest effort. A hundred dishes of food are packed onto each of the tables, from limitless bowls of pasta to honey-glazed meats, Yorkshire puddings and potatoes towering high, and sausages rolling onto hungry plates. Drinks flow endlessly into goblets of gold and silver. The House ghosts dance about, occasionally dipping down to the table for cheered conversation with the students. Candles bob leisurely beneath the ceiling’s sky, glowing amber and white and orange like the stars scattered above their heads, shining their greeting to the returning students and staff. For one day and one day only, there are no exams, no classwork or pressures, but only friends and laughter and the re-joining of relationships from a long, well-deserved break.

The same can be said for the Head table, although perhaps to a lesser degree. Ichigo greets most of the professors professionally, offering his hand and a polite _hello, it’s good to see you again_. Most return similar formalities, but some offer hugs, a friendly kiss on the cheek, or tales of their Christmas adventures, and it is during such a round of laughter with Renji and Rukia that Ichigo notices Tōshirō’s rather hushed conversation with the gamekeeper. Neither man appears disheartened or distressed by any means, but they are talking in quiet, almost secretive tones, their heads bowed together. It’s a humorous sight given their respective size differences – Tōshirō is no means miniature, but just standing at five foot and four inches his height is below average for a man, and this only emphasises the huge form of the gamekeeper beside him, great shoulders casting their meal into shadow.

Ichigo refuses to listen to their clearly private conversation, but that doesn’t stop him from querying about it when Tōshirō expresses his gratitude for whatever Hagrid said and turns back to his dinner.

“You alright there Tōshirō?”

The Astronomy professor looks momentarily surprised at the question, as if unaware that he was being observed. Although Tōshirō is usually so perceptive, Ichigo does wonder if this holds true when the winter-haired wizard colours faintly.

“Ah – yes, thank you Kurosaki-san, although I don’t suppose you’re going to return to calling me _Professor Hitsugaya_ at any point this term, are you?”

Ichigo laughs a _no_. He’s only just encouraged Tōshirō to drop formalities from _Professor Kurosaki_ to _Kurosaki-san_ , and he’s not about to return the favour by any means. Tōshirō will get used to it, he’s sure.

“I didn’t think so,” says the Astronomy professor.

“Sorry,” Ichigo replies, not feeling apologetic in the slightest and knowing his friend is aware of so. He continues his meal in the brief moment of silence, enjoying the stickiness of the onion gravy on his tongue. The roast dinners on Mondays are the only highlight of the first day back at work, and Ichigo doesn’t want to think about all of the class scheduling that he should have done already.

“Get up to much over the holidays then?” he eventually adds, wondering if reaching for another spoonful of potatoes would be a bad idea. Losing weight in the castle is so difficult – magic, unfortunately, doesn’t make that aspect of life much easier.

Tōshirō stares at his cashew nut roast for the exact length of time that would suggest one is about to give an uncharacteristic and potentially treacherous-for-all-parties involved kind of answer.

“Should I be casting a silencing charm on you right about now?” Ichigo asks tentatively.

“Depends,” says the other, turning a thoughtful expression towards him. There’s something guarded in his eyes that Ichigo has seen before – Tōshirō is naturally a private person – but that it’s being aimed at him for once is worrying. He isn’t privy to Tōshirō’s entire life story by any means, but they share experiences that have shaped them in painful ways; ones that have cemented their friendship into something profound.

“Do you have any experience with class five creatures?”

Ichigo dares not ask _why_ , but the question sinks onto his face in dread.

Tōshirō shrugs, as if it’s normal to ask such a thing over a meal in the middle of a hall full of children. “I may have acquired a dragon over the New Year.”

The sole reason Ichigo doesn’t drop his goblet is because he hadn’t risked the chance by picking it up.

“What _species_?”

Raising one of his thin, silvery eyebrows – in sheer disbelief about Ichigo’s gullibility or surprise at his blind trust, it cannot be distinguished – Tōshirō replies, “Icelandic Dustdevil.”

Ichigo almost asks _where on earth_ he could have just _acquired_ a _dragon_ , but thinks better of it. Where the creature is from won’t change the fact that there’s now a live class five, untameable, _wizard killer_ creature roaming around the castle. “Dragons are non-tradable in this country you know – forget about the mass panic around the castle when a student notices, the Ministry of Magic is going to have your _head_ once they find out.”

“They already know,” Tōshirō replies, frowning at his dinner.

Ichigo feels his heart thunder at the implications of his downcast, flat reply, but the stargazer goes on with nothing more daunting than an eye roll.

“I never went home for New Year over the holidays – I couldn’t. The moment I declared Hyorinmaru to the Ministry I had to face a court hearing to win the right to have the egg. They wouldn’t let me out of the Ministry, let alone the _country_ until they were satisfied with the nature of the bond –”

Stunned at the fact that his friend is still teaching here at Hogwarts and not locked up in the depths of _Azkaban_ for dragon dealing (which, of course, Ichigo would have to break him out of), the odd nature of his wording takes a moment to register in Ichigo’s mind.

“Wait – You have an Icelandic Dustdevil as a _familiar_?”

“Yes,” says Tōshirō matter-of-factly, looking entertained at Ichigo’s gaping expression.

“And you’ve just let it – him – the egg –” Cursing, the Muggle Studies professor grabs his friend’s arm and summons his wand, gently writing his next sentence along the length of Tōshirō’s skin. He hopes that neither Renji nor Rukia, sitting on his other side, will notice, although Ichigo knows they’ll have tact enough not to mention it if they do.

(They’ll just blackmail the information out of him later).

_You’ve just left a hugely valuable and strictly illegal dragon egg in your quarters?_

As soon as Tōshirō finishes reading the scruffy magic, the characters float away and fizzle into silence of the secrets between them. Down in the four House tables below, somebody laughs obnoxiously loud, their scepticism reflecting Ichigo’s own.

Unfazed, the Astronomy professor rolls his eyes again, this time the motion expressing the fond vexation he often haunts the staff room with instead of irritation.

“Don’t be stupid, he’s on my lap.”

“He’s _what_?”

Shifting in his chair, Tōshirō pulls away part of his navy cloak to reveal the egg; beautiful, like a miniature galaxy slumbering away under the limitless folds of the night’s sky, its shell of armour appears to be created from fragments and daggers of ice. Slightly smaller than a rugby ball but probably four times as heavy, the egg glows in the centre with a slushy, dim light. Ichigo knows as little about dragons as he does astronomy, yet he imagines the glow will brighten as spring dawns in Scotland and the hatchling is ready to shake the last of winter away.

“Wow,” he breathes, for the lack of anything more sophisticated to express his awe at the sight. The urge to touch the egg to clarify its reality is overwhelming, but Ichigo forces himself to simply stare at the unborn creature and imagine its magnificence. “How old is he?”

Smiling at the egg as he covers it back up, Tōshirō takes a moment to cast a warming charm to ensure that the dragon’s development is peaceful. “About five or six months,” he whispers, and Ichigo would laugh at the parental _elation_ in his tone if he weren’t so amazed himself. “He won’t be ready to hatch until April at least. Until then, he stays with me.”

“People are going to realise.”

“I know. I’ve already informed Professor Dumbledore, but we’ve agreed not to announce anything officially until too many people know, or Hyorinmaru is about to hatch, whichever comes first.”

Ichigo would bet on the former, considering how quickly gossip travels through the castle walls. Nothing is as unstoppable as a juicy rumour – not even Professor Snape’s Gryffindor-reserved fury, and that is a sight Ichigo hopes never to see. “Hyorinmaru?”

“His name of course. He’s a familiar, not an _it_.”

Hastily correcting himself for the blunder, Ichigo apologises. Familiars are by no means rare in the wizarding world, but they’re not exactly common. That Tōshirō has a dragon for a partner _is_ unusual; familiars typically manifest in cats, owls, or other species that wizards can easily acquire. Dragons aren’t exactly the ideal kind of pet, no matter how glorious they appear – there’s a reason the Ministry has categorised them as class five creatures. Tōshirō might as well brought an acromantula into the school for all of the trouble it’s going to cause him, although Ichigo imagines many people would rather find a dragon hiding under a bed than an acromantula. (He wouldn’t blame them either – spiders are _not_ his friends, not matter what his sisters insist).

It could be worse, he supposes. Tōshirō _could_ have had an acromantula for a familiar. Relative to some of the other class five creatures in the wizarding world, a dragon isn’t actually that bad. Plus, Icelandic Dustdevils aren’t known for their unbelievable agility, insatiable craving for humans, venomous teeth, or vicious temper, but instead are considered rather harmless in comparison to species like the Chinese Fireball, Peruvian Vipertooth, and Hungarian Horntail.

In fact, Ichigo doesn’t know what the Icelandic Dustdevils excel in. They’re a solitary species, preferring the company of their own mind to the ruckus of others, and are thus thought to be one of the more intelligent species. Beyond that, all Ichigo can recall as the main course of the evening ends and the platters begin to switch for dessert is the distinctly slender body of the Icelandic Dustdevil. Similar to the traditional Chinese dragon but stockier, the species can grow to quite extensive lengths if he remembers rightly, but there’s every chance that he’s actually mixing up his image with one of the ancient Chinese species.

Either way, Hyorinmaru is going to be a _little too big_ to fit in Tōshirō’s quarters once he’s fully-grown.

Still, Astronomy classes are about to become a bit more interesting.

 

 

Renji catches him after the feast and drags him across the castle, blabbering about _belated Christmas presents_ and grinning with pride, and Ichigo’s spirits are too high to argue. He has been to Renji’s quarters a handful of times before (although he doesn’t often remember _leaving_ them), but never with his friend acting so oddly. Hyperactivity is not in Renji’s nature – rowdiness is, unfortunately – but his enthusiasm soon becomes clear as Ichigo is hauled into his friend’s study and presented with a very large, terribly wrapped box.

“Open it,” Renji says, pushing him towards the desk where it sits.

“Is it an acromantula?” Ichigo finds himself muttering, nevertheless making his way over and withdrawing his wand from his pocket.

“Dude, why would it be an acromantula? And seriously, it’s nothing bad, you don’t need your wand. If I could fit an acromantula in a box that small, I would be impressed with myself.”

“Oh, no reason,” the auburn man replies, smiling to himself. His wand remains steady anyway, and he hears Renji’s gruff laugh as he tears away the wrapping paper with caution.

It’s a microwave.

Ichigo blurts _oh god_ just as Renji announces, “I got it to work!” and slaps a head atop the metal case, prompting the appliance to whirr.

The _Protego_ that Ichigo casts is instinctive, yet the microwave merely beeps as the door springs open, the light inside flickering on without erupting in a tantrum of sparks and fire. Wary, the Muggle Studies professor peers around his shield to inspect the machine, ignoring Renji’s knowing laughter. It appears just like all the rest – innocent and inanimate right up until they explode – except there’s a faint impression of a shape on the back, shining faintly.

Uncertain whether he should be impressed or running for his life, Ichigo slowly dismisses his spell. Making a microwave light up is one thing (and it’s one thing better than what he could do, all things considered) but that’s the easy part.

“Will it cook things?” he asks, searching around the quarters for something to test.

“Huh?” Renji replies, watching him blankly. “Is that what it does?”

Ichigo resists the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he channels his frustration with wizarding ignorance into his spell, casting _Accio coffee cup_ to see if Renji has left anything lying around. When nothing happens except the crockery in the cupboards trembling at his tone, Ichigo transfigures the ink pot into a mug and snaps, _Aguamenti_.

Once it’s full, he shoves the cup into the microwave and shuts the door, punching in a minute on the timer. By some miracle, the inner surface actually begins to turn, but Ichigo casts another shield charm just in case. Unperturbed by the impending danger, Renji jumps around the table to watch the appliance, looking astonished.

“What’s it doing?”

“Heating up water.”

“Won’t you boil it?”

“No,” Ichigo says, wondering if his friend has any sense of self-preservation. Their previous endeavour with the toaster has already proven that Renji’s skills at Alchemy clearly aren’t up to the standard that he thought they were. “Because I’m going to do this –”

He opens the door and pulls the mug out, the microwave beeping angrily at him but exerting none of the toasters’ previous dramatics. The ceramic is hot when he touches it, and Ichigo is unable to swallow the noise of surprise he emits when he realises the water is too, and nothing about it has resulted in catastrophic injury.

On the other hand, Renji simply blinks at it, rather unimpressed. “Is that it? I was expecting something a bit more… extravagant after all that hard work.”

Ichigo laughs helplessly. Purebloods are ridiculous and Renji takes the cake. “It’s a _microwave_.”

“Like I know what that is.”

“You just spent the _entire Christmas holidays_ trying to make one work!”

The tattooed wizard shrugs, apparently unconcerned with this fact. “Yeah, so what? That was only because I didn’t know what else to get you as a present.”

Ichigo is lost for words. His friend is a complete and utter _moron_ – who else would dedicate weeks to perfecting complicated alchemic magic just to satisfy the inconsequential needs of a Muggle Studies professor who has bitten off more than he can chew? What kind of _Pureblood_ would willingly assist in improving the link between the magic and Muggle worlds except a foolishly loyal and unbelievably generous one?

“What you looking at me like that for?”

Unable to form a coherent sentence to express how confused and grateful he is, Ichigo can do nothing but shake his head. “Jesus, Renji, _Jesus_. Just – just never change, okay?”

Renji’s expression suggests that’s the most stupid question he’s ever heard. “Sure,” he says, as if it’s the easiest promise to keep in the world. “Whatever.”

 

 

February rolls around, dragging more snow and the depression of sleet with it to emphasise the January blues. Ichigo has long given up on conquering the weather, and has forced his hands to accept their fate as crooked, peach-coloured icicles as he goes about his day. Warming charms are effective in short bursts, but as the days grow colder and the nights show no mercy, Ichigo worries about accidentally scorching his hands off in his desperation to keep his circulation moving.

He feels sorry for the students who have afternoon Potions classes. By the end of lunch, the castle is so cold that even Professor Snape looks reluctant to return to his domain. The Slytherin students huddle together like penguins and not even the Gryffindors are cruel enough to separate them. Although, that might just be due to their own frozen efforts, but either way Ichigo can tell that everybody is wishing for spring to hurry up and arrive.

Tōshirō seems to be the only person in the entire school who isn’t bothered by the weather. With an unnatural insanity, the Astronomy professor is often seen wearing only a couple of layers about the castle, whereas the rest of the staff and student body appear to have tripled in mass under the weight of their jumpers, cloaks, and coats. The Astronomy classroom isn’t exactly the warmest place in the castle either – the view is spectacular from the windows, but wind constantly batters the tower and drives through the brick, chilling all those inside. Classes atop the open roof are cancelled until further notice – Tōshirō could cast a protective dome to keep the weather away, but he argues that the magic would disrupt the view from the telescopes, and thus there’s no point searching for the stars if you can’t see further than a few feet.

His students are thankful. Tōshirō laughs when he hears recounts of their mumbled gratitude, but by the next lesson, he has modified the suns and stars floating under the classroom ceiling to emit heat enough to warm the room a little better.

“It’ll do Hyorinmaru good anyway,” he says, too modest to admit anything else.

The dragon egg remains at his side constantly. During small classes – sixth and seventh years – Tōshirō has taken to hiding the egg in plain sight, doing nothing more than wrapping it up in a cloak and leaving it on one of the chairs in the alcove. Beneath the navy fabric, the rounded shape could be a whole manner of things, and nobody so much as blinks at it. In larger classes where Tōshirō partakes in more pacing and assisting than standard lecturing, or lessons where practical work brings more freedom for students to move about the room, Hyorinmaru usually spends his day as an addition to the professor’s bag of miniature sundials and planetary models that he shares amongst the class. Once, Ichigo had walked in after a fifth year class to spot the egg floating rather leisurely between Jupiter and Saturn and had almost had a heart attack at the sight of it. Tōshirō had simply laughed at him, but at Ichigo’s terrified expression had dutifully lowered the egg to a safer height.

“I wouldn’t have labelled you as the overprotective parent,” the Astronomy professor had said offhandedly, brushing a comet fragment from Hyorinmaru’s shell. “But I find that I’m not that surprised.”

Ichigo had blushed to the tips of his hair and blubbered some pathetic denial.

The only other people that Ichigo knows to be enjoying the cold weather are the paintings. Frequent laughter and cooing follows students as they trek snow about the castle, wrapped up in gloves and scarves and colourful jumpers. Many of the portraits seem to think that winter is the season to be jolly (or something) and the fact that they don’t feel the cold lets them take advance of this. Kyoraku, for instance, is particularly enjoying Nanao’s bobble hat (which she insists is a gift and thus feels compelled to wear) and repetitively proclaims how it _suits her_ _perfectly_ , only he words it a little more flowery than that and Ichigo dares not repeat.

He has known since his second day at the castle that Kyoraku has taken it upon himself to frequently remind the young librarian of how attractive she is. Nanao does have a distinct prettiness about her, Ichigo cannot deny, but it takes a very brave or outrageously stupid man with no personal space issues or common sense to sing about it, and Kyoraku definitely sits somewhere between the two.

Despite the flagrant creepiness that the behaviour screams to the world, Nanao seems to take the portrait’s habits in stride. Her no-nonsense approach to Kyoraku’s nature is the only reason Ichigo hasn’t stepped in to put a stop to his endeavours; he knows that the alcohol-loving, smooth-talking portrait would never intentionally cause any harm to the staff and students in the castle, but he doesn’t always trust that Kyoraku’s rationality is the brain doing the talking. Yet, Nanao has never expressed any desire for Kyoraku to cease his attentions – oh, she’s made her irritation known a few times, but only when he has interrupted her work. Beyond the library and her job hours, the witch is yet to turn him away.

Ichigo thinks it is just as sweet as it is odd. Not one to pry into people’s personal lives, he doesn’t know what either of his two friends want from such an inconceivable relationship – friendship would be the most practical answer, but Ichigo’s not completely blind.

Or deaf.

Kyoraku’s singing is good, but only when it’s not a four AM intoxicated haze of mushy words and ostentatious love confessions.

Ichigo will admit that he has cast a _Silencio_ charm on his guard before.

“I have thought of doing that, but I imagine Ukitake-san will remove the charm,” Nanao says when he recounts the event to her one Sunday afternoon. Hogsmeade Village is quiet at this time of day and year, so it’s the perfect time to find a cosy spot in one of the corner cafes to have lunch. Ichigo figures it’s a well-deserved treat anyway – although he is yet to introduce his students to the wonders of the microwave, he’s sure they’re improving. The last stack of fourth year essays hadn’t wanted to make him bury himself in the snow, and his final year students seem to have finally perfected their timelines of Muggle wars. Progress is slow, but Ichigo is certain that he has enough evidence to persuade Professor Dumbledore not to replace him at the end of the year, at any least.

“Nah, Ukitake thinks it’s hilarious,” he replies, recalling the man’s joyful laughter at his best friend’s misfortune. “Well, he did in the morning anyway. Luckily, he was in a different painting that night, so only I was subject to Kyoraku’s drunken tune. That’s probably why he did it, the bastard.”

Flicking over a page in her current novel, Nanao peers over the glasses perched on the edge of her nose. “Yes, I wouldn’t put it past him. Kyoraku-san’s subtly is as sporadic as his poetry. His magical abilities could probably rival Professor Dumbledore’s, but he rarely puts his mind to it.”

While impressed with Kyoraku’s apparent skill both in life and death, all Ichigo can think about as he charms the teapot to pour another drink for his companion is that the swords the portraits carry as they guard his room are _secondary_. “So they _do_ have wands,” he muses, wondering why he has never seen them. He has just assumed that wands aren’t carried over in paintings, although he has no reason to think otherwise.

“What – _of course_ they have wands,” Nanao responds, shaking her head. “Well, they’re represented by the acrylics and depend partly on the artists’ recreation, but they _are_ capable of using them just as they had in life.”

She gives him a flat stare, her eyebrows questioning the extent of his knowledge.

Ichigo wonders absentmindedly if everybody in the castle has a _don’t you know anything_ expression reserved just for him.

(He knows what his friends would say).

After saying goodbye and parting ways in the market town, Ichigo heads back up the castle. The Scottish landscape is barren of life in the arctic season; snow tumbles constantly from the blank expanse of the sky, falling silently in the howl of the wind, but Ichigo has learnt his way back to the entrance gates. He casts _Point-Me_ just in case though, following it diligently when the trees close in around him, the ground an endless white blanket of possible paths before him.

None of his possessions ends up halfway down the mountainside this time, which Ichigo counts as a plus, yet in lieu of this adversity, he seems to gain something else on his journey back. At first, he hardly notices it, just a speck in the distance. It’s just as likely to be a tree or a rock in the frozen wilderness about the castle, so the professor hardly gives the shape much thought as the castle nears. Yet it continues to approach – steadily, as if unfeeling of the wind, snow, or sleet, or the great distance between them – and Ichigo halts his trek when the angular outline of the creature takes form against the snowy backdrop.

“You have got to be joking,” he mutters, and only the wind’s shrieking laughter replies as the thestral trots closer, its thin shape of brittleness and serration cutting through the landscape.

“You know,” he says, aiming his complaint at the creature despite not raising his voice enough for it to hear. “I go out of my way to _avoid_ you lot.”

The thestral says nothing and just continues to walk closer, driven by a goal that he can only fathom. Cursing his horrendous luck, Ichigo figures he might as well make his life that little bit easier and turns from the path up to the gates to meet the thestral halfway. At this change, the creature emits a high-pitched whinnying noise that would slice through even the thickest storms, and Ichigo rolls his eyes at the thestral’s audacity.

“No, you can’t have it both ways,” he grumbles, struggling to hike through the snow as he begins to descend down to wherever the thestral has come from. The Forbidden Forest surrounds most of the castle, and though he has never seen the herd for himself, Ichigo had always thought the thestrals dwelled far into the thicket. Why one has decided to wander so far from his home is beyond him, but the whisper of doubt in the back of the professor’s mind drives him to check the animal.

Perhaps it’s hurt. Or lost. It could be young – and stupid, or just stupid. Maybe it’s looking for something other than to drive Ichigo up the wall, but what, he couldn’t say.

No matter what its intentions are, and no matter how much Ichigo wants to protest, complain, and simply turn his back and head up to Hogwarts, he knows he can’t leave it out here. Thestral biology is not a topic he has ever researched, so there’s every possibility that it could freeze to death faster than he would.

“For fuck’s sake, Tōshirō’s right,” Ichigo mumbles, casting another warming charm on his jacket before stuffing his wand back into his pocket.  The February mountainside of Hogwarts is not a place he wants to misplace it. “I _am_ the overprotective parent.”

The thestral is closer now, perhaps ten, twenty feet away. It doesn’t appear to be obviously hurt as he examines it from the distance, but it is difficult to tell given the weather. The wind probably won’t let up until March at the earliest, and the two foot of snow they are trekking through doesn’t have any intentions on melting for months. Why he had chosen to further his career in such a treacherous country is beyond him – the places in the world that he would be more comfortable in right now are endless, and he’s stuck in Scotland because he’s an idiot.

Another whinny echoes around him, but this time there’s a note of alarm. Cursing the world in general this time, Ichigo picks up his pace, clambering towards the distressed thestral with great difficulty, hauling his potentially frostbitten toes through the snow. The ground fights against him at every step, crunching in protest and tripping him on rocks and jagged edges concealed by the snow. Ichigo curses them all as well, revealing the extent of his vulgar vocabulary to the thestral, but figures getting his wand back out when he’s so close to his goal will just be a waste of time.

He regrets this just a second after noticing that the thestral, its gawky limp splattering blood as it hobbles towards him, is being trailed by six shapes camouflaged a dirty white in the snow. Ichigo can hardly make them out against the wintry backdrop, but the thestral’s panic is paramount. It charges past him with gangly movements of terror, repeating its previous whining noise as the wizard simply stands there questioning how he been so absorbed on the thestral’s presence not to spot the impending danger stalking closer.

Wolves.

Ichigo swears high and mighty and scrambles through his coat for his wand. Behind him now, the thestral continues fleeing, and he has a moment to ponder the value of such a tactic before the first howl echoes around the mountainside; long, low and frightening in its beauty, the wolves resound together, announcing their hunt.

Whether they’re starving enough to eat human is suddenly rather relevant.

“ _Impedimenta_!” he roars, aiming for the closest predator. The spell sails past it, the wolf entirely unfazed, and Ichigo abruptly doubts the clarity of his vision as the snow continues to fall, blurring past him in gusts and whirls of the gales.

He casts the spell again, watching it miss for a second time. Yet the wolves slow their approach as if the jinx had succeeded; definitely interested in him now, fangs and claws and teeth and dark, hungry eyes fixed upon him, the pack keep their bodies low to the ground, fur tangling with the endless stretch of snow. Their size is impossible to distinguish, but their threat is clear. Ichigo can just make out a smear of blood across a snarling pair of jaws before one pounces, seeming to triple in menace as it tears from the snow.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_! _Stupe_ – _Protego_!”

The shield explodes into existence and the wolf slams into it, razor fangs ripping against the fizzling barrier. The force of the two hundred pound creature causes Ichigo’s legs to quake as the wolf rebounds from the spell, but before he can stabilise his thundering heartbeat for another onslaught, the second wolf has dived into sight. Throwing himself from its path, Ichigo is astonished to hear his stunning spell hit its target – the wolf yelps and collapses some feet away, the snow trailing its crumple into defeat.

There is a moment of pure, petrifying silence.

The pack stares at him, assessing his abilities. Ichigo would do the same, except blood is pounding in his ears and adrenaline is surging through his body; all he can think about is the Sahara upon his tongue and the moaning of the wind in his ears – _fight_ , it asks him, _or flight_?

He can’t outrun one wolf, let alone six that thrive in a magical environment, clashing with dark, unknown creatures of the Forbidden Forest. Born to hunt, they best him in every aspect – speed, agility, strength, and numbers – except for one.

Ichigo may be a _Muggle Studies_ professor, but he knows his stuff.

Kisuke taught him more than just Potions, after all.

“ _Expulso_!” he yells, aiming his wand at the ground. Snow erupts around him, startling yelps from the pack, and Ichigo quickly follows the spell with _Oppugno_ , causing the surge of sleet to scatter into a thousand shards and fling themselves at the wolves. The distraction gives him time to cast a supersensory charm upon himself, and his visual world intensifies in a flare of white, grey, and black; the castle turrets extend in the distance, the wolves sharpen, specks of red and silver in their fur, and the wounded thestral appears behind him, swooping down on battered wings.

 _Flight_ , Ichigo thinks, pointing his wand towards the sky.

“ _Expecto Patronum_!”

The thestral patronus soars upwards, shining with white gold and moonlight as the snowstorm swallows it up. Ichigo throws himself to the side as the blur of coal and darkness of the other thestral plummets past, whipping up the snowy earth and scattering the effects of his _Oppugno_ charm in a hail of diamond knives. Blinded, the wolves retreat, but their snarling is a clear indication that they are yet to admit defeat. Ichigo almost feels bad for them – they must be desperate to follow a thestral so far from the safety of their usual hunting grounds – but he’d rather not be eaten than satisfy their hunger.

Casting _Defodio_ to gouge out the snow beneath the feet of the nearest wolf, the wizard clambers towards the safety of the thestral’s massive form, counting his blessing for the supersensory charm as ice and sleet flurries around him. Two of the wolves charge around the gush of snow, launching blindly into the fray. Ichigo’s patronus dives down towards them, gigantic wings of light spread afar, and the wolves yelp in terror and scatter back to the rest of the pack. The patronus shrieks its terrifying call and chases after them, glowing like an angel; a light-cloaked bringer of death. It almost seems not to exist in the snow, and the wolves flee at the sight of its transparent, flicking form, fearful in the face of such uncertainty.

The gales howl their retreat.

Ichigo keeps his wand level, gripping the ebony wood so tightly that he is sure it will freeze to his hands. His patronus trots around him, leaving no impressions in the snow, flapping its skeletal wings and holding its head high. The material thestral watches its triumph and tries to imitate the victorious motions, but its own wings are torn where they should be taunt and red where they should be black. Yet it is still standing and still breathing, and Ichigo feels relief to know that his efforts (his unsurprisingly taxing and unprofessionally dangerous ones) have paid off.

The thestral seems to think so to, for when the wolves have finally disappeared into the depths of the forest, it _bonks_ it head against Ichigo’s, nudging him happily.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” replies the wizard, shoving its nose away. “Thank me once you’re healed and I’m not about to freeze to death. And I hope you’re not going to cause any trouble if I try and take you to Professor Kettleburn.”

Looking affronted at the suggestion, the creature nuzzles him, leaning down to chew on his hair. Ichigo rolls his eyes but lets it – omen of misery and misfortune or not, it’s still hurt and needs his assistance. Even with the wolves gone, he can’t leave it to bleed out.

It may be ugly and despicable, but it doesn’t deserve to die.

Nothing does – not even death itself personified.

“Come on,” says the wizard, patting the thestral’s jaw. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Then he glances over at his patronus, watching dutifully, and feels guilt swell in his chest. The white thestral merely stares at him, wings still stretched in a protective arch of light.

“Thanks,” Ichigo mutters, cringing as the other thestral tugs on his cloak. “For – you know. You didn’t have to –”

He shakes the thought away. The unreliability of his happy memories is not something he wants to dwell on, and Ichigo cannot bring himself to say anymore.

Understanding, the patronus lowers its head and fades away, and fire flashes in front of Ichigo’s eyes; an explosion of gold and scarlet above the ice, heat scorches in a burst of wildfire. The black thestral screeches, rearing away, but Ichigo reacts too slowly to cast a shield charm. Fortunately, the flames disappear like a crack of lightning, and Fawkes trills in greeting as he swoops down to perch upon the professor’s shoulder.

The thestral snorts, puffing up the phoenix’s feathers.

Ichigo feels like doing the same.

“You’re _late_.”

Fawkes warbles an apology, rubbing himself against Ichigo’s cheek. The professor sighs and accepts the affection, stroking the magnificent bird gently. He’s never gotten this close to Professor Dumbledore’s familiar before. Ichigo feels like he’s overstepping an unspoken boundary by letting the phoenix sit so near, despite appreciating the practicality as every inch of his body gradually begins to warm just by being in Fawkes’ presence.

“Did Professor Dumbledore send you?”

The phoenix nods and wiggles so that the burning elegance of his tail is trailing down Ichigo’s chest, shivering in the wind. Ichigo glances at it, understands, and then looks up at the moody thestral with a hesitant expression.

“Ever travelled by flash-fire before?” he asks it.

The thestral blinks at him.

Ichigo hadn’t thought so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter! :)
> 
> I aim to update on Sunday 14th Dec.


	3. The Protector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost long enough to be split into two - I nearly cut out the last scene too, but I figured you will all like that one so I thought better of it :)
> 
> Also, now I want to write a spin-off where Ichigo and Fawkes go on dumb adventures as BFFs. Just because.

“Whatever you’re planning is going to go horribly wrong,” Rukia informs him, slurping her vanilla milkshake through a straw. The motions makes the low, chugging noise that Ichigo has come to associate with fatty fast-food chains, and he wonders if introducing the witch to McDonald’s had been a bad idea. Being blackmailed into giving a tour of Muggle London hadn’t been in Ichigo’s plans for the morning, but Rukia has a very persuasion method of encouraging him to do things – that is, a smile as sweet and innocent as a puppy, and a fist as solid as a brick.

Having a girl as a best friend is far more trouble than it’s worth.

“It’ll be _fine_ ,” Ichigo argues, insisting his point for the millionth time. “I’ve been testing it for _weeks_ to make sure it works, and I’ve just started teaching the _History of Technology_ to my fifth years, so I can’t really miss this opportunity to give this a go.”

He pats the microwave to emphasise his point. The Muggle Studies professor imagines most of the students that will walk into the next period will have no idea what he has sitting in the middle of his desk, but at least that way they won’t have any time to flee.

Rukia raises her eyebrows and slurps shortly. “It’s powered by Renji’s magic,” she says flatly, as if that clarifies her concern over Ichigo’s plan to demonstrate how a microwave works.

Which it does, and within reason.

“He’s the _Alchemy_ professor,” he stresses, ignoring the amused expression his petite friend responds with as he continues tidying up his desk. The last period of the day is due to begin within the hour, and Ichigo is yet to clear away the remains of a rushed and tepid dinner.

“Uh- _huh_. And does that make you any more inclined to trust him?”

“Well – no.”

The witch says nothing, but Ichigo can hear her smugness anyway. Huffing a laugh despite himself, the professor retrieves his class notes and scours around for a piece of chalk to write the lesson’s objectives. Spelling them upon the blackboard would be far easier, but Ichigo enjoys doing some things the Muggle way.

The bell rings to signify the end of the dinner hour. Soon, students will be arriving at their desks for the last lesson of the day, and Ichigo hopes his efforts will be worthwhile. If they are, then he already has plans to improve his alchemic magic and get the toaster to work without Renji’s help – he imagines it will take some time, but it’ll give him something to do beside marking and scheduling.

“Right, well,” Rukia says, eyeing the microwave oven warily. “I’m going to help Professor Kettleburn with his next class, so if this endeavour goes terribly, terribly wrong like I bet it will, I will be too far from the castle to help you.”

“Like I’ll need your help,” Ichigo retorts, laughing, and Rukia departs with a final slurp of her milkshake.

The professor spends the last few minutes of peace to lay out the rest of his demonstration on the table – acquiring a microwave had been one thing, but getting his hands on its separate components without having to forcibly take on apart had been tricky. Not all of them are available for his class today, but Ichigo is just glad to have a cavity magnetron and a capacitor. His students aren’t going to have a clue what they are, and most probably won’t even care, but hopefully the functional microwave will change their minds.

Lessons are always more fun with practical elements.

The fifth years file in just after the hour mark. The majority finds their seats without so much as giving Ichigo a second glass, but a few falter at the site of the microwave and shuffle nervously past his desk. This response is only increased by the burst of laughter from the one of the Muggleborn students in the class; the other, a Ravenclaw, frowns at the appliance as her halfblood friends gather around, and asks with a note of awe:

“Does it work, sir?”

Ichigo is grateful to be able to say _yes_.

Wary mumbles answer the registration call as the rest of the students begin to notice the strange contraption, and the professor counts that as a win for the Muggle world.

“You can put your textbooks and quills away,” he announces, flicking all of the books shut with a wave of his wand. Smiles brighten the students’ faces immediately, but some look confused, no doubt wondering where Ichigo is about to take the lesson as they pack away their belongings.

“Since we’re going to be studying technology over the rest of this term, I’m going to try and show you first hand just what sorts of things the Muggle world has developed. We’re going to start in the home – domestic items and things you’ll find in the kitchen or study – before moving onto transport, medicine, and warfare. You won’t be required to give me a detailed account of the science behind this technology in your exam, but this term will be building on some of the basic knowledge that you learnt last term, so do pay attention. Instead, I’ll expect you to be able to _describe_ technological changes through time, and argue pros and cons of such changes – practical applications, worldwide effects, that sort of thing.”

The Ravenclaws look like they’re itching to write all of that down, and Ichigo smiles, having thought ahead and prepared a worksheet with the terms’ objectives. Waving his wand, the stack of paper on his desk fans out across the room, delivering a sheet to each student, and he prompts the fifth years to put them away for reading at a later date.

“Right,” Ichigo begins, pocketing his wand. His eyes scan the crowd of curious, expectant faces. “So _other_ than Mr Ansley and Miss Tatham – I know you know this guys – _who_ can tell me what the primary function of a microwave oven is?”

Blank expressions stare at him.

 _It’s a good start_ , Ichigo thinks.

 

 

When he walks in after the class and spots the microwave, still intact, sitting on Ichigo’s desk, Renji cheers.

“Very encouraging,” Rukia mutters as she follows him in, rolling her eyes at the laughter from her two friends. “Ichigo, you’re still alive. I’m surprised. I spent the entire class watching for smoke rising from the castle.”

“Oh very funny,” the Muggle Studies professor replies, dodging Renji’s enthusiastic punch. “I did know what I was doing, you know.”

The raven-haired witch laughs at him. “That’s a first,” she teases, helping him tidy up the classroom. The cavity magnetron seems to have ended up stuck to the ceiling, and Ichigo’s not entirely sure when that had happened in the midst of the chaotic class, but he unsticks it with a standard counter charm without much effort. Rukia stacks the chairs to the sides of the room with a swish of willow wood and catches the metal object when Ichigo throws it to her.

“I hope this isn’t part of your appliance,” she says, turning the chunky contraption over in her hands. Across the room, Renji nervously pokes the microwave to check for any missing pieces.

Ichigo rolls his eyes at them both, insulted by their lack of faith. “No, it’s not. Well, it _is_ part of a microwave, but not that one. Relax, my class actually went well if you can believe it. Nothing caught fire and nobody died.”

His friends blink astonishment at him. Ichigo grumbles a curse but cannot blame them for their scepticism – he’s amazed the whole thing went off without a hitch too. After comforting the initiation trepidation from his Pureblood and Halfblooded students, he had put the microwave to the test to prove that he wasn’t a complete crack-pot. He imagines most of his students think he is anyway – what other kind of wizard would associate with the Muggle world after all – but Ichigo couldn’t help but fist bump the air when the microwave had proven its use. Steaming, _drinkable_ hot chocolate had been handed out to every student; some of the students from the older families had looked _appalled_ by the simplicity of the drink, but Ichigo had had to admit a temporary defeat for that problem.

 _One at a time_ , he had told himself. _One at a time_.

Rukia throws the cavity magnetron to Renji, missing the redhead’s poor attempt at catching it. Ichigo doesn’t, and he laughs as the Alchemy professor dives forward to scoop the hefty object from the air.

“Hey Renji, I thought you used to play Quidditch?”

“Yeah, as _Beater_ ,” replies the man, grumbling as he sets the microwave part on the desk. “I was useless as a Chaser.”

“I can see why.”

“Piss off.”

Once the room is clear and all of the demonstration pieces have been rounded up, Ichigo stashes his books away and gathers up his bag. He has a seventh year class to prepare for in the morning and two more essays to mark that he should have completed the week before, so he encourages his friends to walk with him as he levitates the microwave out through the door. Unfortunately, his quarters aren’t close to the Muggle Studies classroom, but as long as he doesn’t step onto the main staircase with a bunch of first years, Ichigo knows it won’t take long before Shiro and Zangetsu are pecking him for food. The last time he had traversed the staircase with a group of squabbling first year Ravenclaws, the castle had refused to deposit them to their destination until the argument had settled down. Ichigo had not been impressed when he had consequently turned up late to the staff meeting, but Hogwarts had apologised by creating a shortcut back to his quarters – one he has been unable to find again, but Ichigo appreciated the sentiment.

“So they liked the microwave?” Renji asks, giving the small oven a tap with his knuckles.

“Yeah they did, though half of them wouldn’t go near it for about twenty minutes. I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have told them that they are prone to blowing up if you put the wrong things in, but I had to warn them somehow. Oh, and four of my students didn’t know what a pizza was when I said they could try out the microwave for themselves – _four_ of them Renji– and a _pizza_ for god’s sake – a _pizza_. What sort of world do you guys live in? I had to introduce Rukia to _McDonald’s_ today –”

“What’s a McDonald’s?” Renji blurts, just as Rukia asks what a pizza is.

“It’s a fast-food restaurant chain, Professor Abarai, specialising in the most horrendous burgers imaginable. And a pizza is a piece of flat-bread topped with tomato sauce, cheese, and other things, and cooked in the oven,” cuts in a smooth voice filled with amusement.

Turning his disbelieving expression from his two confused Pureblooded friends to spot Tōshirō waiting beside Kyoraku and Ukitake’s painting, Ichigo swallows down his _oh my god, Renji, maybe you should sit in my class_ , and moans instead:

“I need more Halfblood friends.”

Tōshirō lifts his eyebrows as the two Pureblood professors emit noises of comprehension. “I’m a Muggleborn,” he states in way of greeting, inclining his head briefly.

“Even better,” Ichigo replies, spelling the microwave to float in through the open painting and deposit itself safely in his quarters. Shiro has yet to make his presence known, and the wizard can only hope that he stays clear until his friends have fled. “You know what a pizza is, and that’s enough.”

The Astronomy professor laughs.

“We’re being replaced,” Renji bemoans.

“Yes you are,” says Ichigo, making a shooing motion towards the Purebloods. “I’m alive, my class are alive, and now you can go and collect whatever winnings you gained from the bet.”

They don’t ask how he knows about the bet, and instead glance at each other with identical grins. Rolling his eyes, Ichigo bids them goodbye and beckons Tōshirō to follow him into his quarters. Ukitake, the only guard currently present, says something the Muggle Studies professor doesn’t catch, but the slap of a high-five follows Renji’s whole-heartedly laughter, and Ichigo decides he _really_ doesn’t want to know what mischief his friends have been getting up to.

“You want tea or something?” he asks to the room at large, although Tōshirō is the only other wizard present. Slipping off his shoes and throwing his outer robes over the back of the sofa, Ichigo runs a hand through the molten sunlight of his hair and lifts a questioning eyebrow to the astronomer. Yet he misses Tōshirō’s response over the squawk from the boisterous maniac he calls a pet, and Shiro scrambles through the air to peck woes of starvation into Ichigo’s head.

“Alright, alright,” the wizard groans, swatting the bird’s talons away. He thinks he hears a noise of sympathy from his friend, but Ichigo cannot be certain over the furious flustering of the eagle owl. “I’ll feed you, I’ll feed you – Jesus, you ate like a couple hours ago. _Accio Shiro and Zangetsu’s ridiculous dinner because they’re apparently starving over here_.”

The spell works, but Shiro has snatched the dead, defrosted rabbit from the air before it can arrive at its intended destination. Zangetsu’s meal follows suit, quickly falling victim to the white owl’s hungry impatience, but the great coal owl merely has to stare dark eyes at his smaller counterpart for his food to be released.

“Very conventional of you,” comes a sarcastic comment from the doorway.

“Thanks,” Ichigo replies, letting his owls feed themselves. He’s still planning to let them out to hunt in the forest until they are satisfied, but at least if he gives them something then he knows they’ve eaten.

And Shiro is far easier to handle after a meal, which is a massive plus.

The ginger haired wizard wanders into the kitchen, switching on the kettle and retrieving two mugs from the far cupboard with a wave of his wand. The wooden door slams open and rebounds, knocking one of the china cups so that it tumbles through the air. Used to his unpredictable domestic magic, Ichigo simply ducks under the mugs’ wobbly path to the table and fetches the milk, throwing a question over his shoulder:

“So – tea?”

“Please,” says Tōshirō from behind him. “Is there anything I can do?”

The kettle whistles. A pair of spoons dance over to the mugs, clicking and clacking against each other. Ichigo walks straight into one and almost pokes his eye out, so his assurance that no assistance is required comes out rather unconvincingly.

“Did you need anything?” he goes on, flicking one of the used teabags through the air. It bounces against the side of the bin but tumbles inside, and on the wall beside it the number _241_ flashes up in bright, neon colours to celebrate the success, before disappearing again.

Tōshirō accepts the drink with a mutter of gratitude and blows across the surface softly. Teal eyes stare into the pool of dubiously tasteful tea, and the wizard’s entire demeanour seems to switch off for a moment; shoulders hunched and pale fingers clasping the handle, Tōshirō startles as the spoons fly across the kitchen and clatter into the sink.

Ichigo doesn’t ask if he’s okay, because there’s clearly something on his mind. Tōshirō does not often venture down to this part of the castle unless he needs something, but even then he would much rather get straight to the point. Accepting the offer of tea is odd behaviour for the stargazer – Ichigo usually has to trek up the Astronomy tower if he wants to share a drink with his friend.

“Yes, actually. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do me a favour.”

Ichigo doesn’t hesitate before accepting. Favours are things that Tōshirō is willing to give, not owe; his independent, virtuoso nature demands that he succeed on his own merits, and not by the good graces of others. “What do you need?”

“Could you cover one of my classes for me? It’d be a first year class so I can make you a set of notes to work from or some textbooks to read if you’d prefer. The first half of the lesson would consist of a test that I’ve already prepared – you’d mark it then and there – and the second half was just going to be revision on how to read a star chart, and you already know how to do that.”

Stirring in another sprinkle of sugar into his tea, Ichigo shrugs. “Sure. What day? I take it you’ve already worked out that I’m free?”

Looking relieved, it is only now that Tōshirō takes a sip of his drink. Belatedly realising that they’re both still standing in the kitchen, Ichigo motions for his guest to sit, but the Astronomy professor shakes his head and continues; “Next week. It’d be the Tuesday – I’ve only got first and seventh years on Tuesdays, and the seventh years are working on their final projects so they know what they’re doing. I would just rather somebody that I know is familiar with the subject look after the first years.”

“Yeah I don’t mind. And it’s fine – you don’t need to explain. I’m happy to help.”

White hair flops downwards as the professor nods, gratitude causing him to shy. On the surface, Tōshirō seems to be characterised by an iron will and a titanium backbone, and thus Ichigo still finds his friend’s reserved nature surprising. Tōshirō is a man resilient to many things – stupidity and ignorance alike – but his strength is a fortification of ice built up over the years to protect himself, rather than the fiery passion that burns in Ichigo’s soul. Ichigo burns away criticism and discrimination with his hot-headed attitude, but Tōshirō lets it fester until it has added to the barrier around his heart, shielding rather than destructing.

“What’s the catch?” Ichigo laughs, recognising Tōshirō’s _I might not have told you everything yet_ look.

Definitely reluctant to answer this time, the little professor sighs. “Could you possibly look after Hyorinmaru as well?” he says, and Ichigo understands the complaint in his tone instantly. The dragon egg stays by his friend’s side almost constantly – in fact, Tōshirō has taken to carrying the egg around in a specifically made duffel bag to cater for the hatchling’s needs. At first, it had received some odd looks from the students and staff, but after a week or so people stopped noticing the dark fabric at his side.

(Partly, this might be due to Tōshirō finally announcing the presence of his familiar at a staff meeting. The staff had taken the castle’s new addition rather well, Ichigo thinks, though Hagrid’s happy blubbering drowning out most of their shocked exclamations probably paid a part in that).

From the living area, the owls hoot to announce that they’re finished with their meal. Mechanically, Ichigo takes the tip of his wand against the kitchen wall, and a surge of magic zips around the doorframe to open one of the living room windows. There’s a faint rustle of movement and the clatter of one of the owl perches falling over, but Ichigo knows that his companions have left to explore the grounds.

Pondering the nature of his relationship with the owls, he frowns at Tōshirō’s statement. “You can’t take him with you?” he asks, wondering how it would feel to be parted from a familiar. He doesn’t have one so he cannot compare – Zangetsu is the closest thing he has, but Ichigo doesn’t feel compelled to have the Blakiston’s fish owl constantly at his side, and his time away from Shiro is frankly a godsend.

“No. It’s my sister, she’s – sick. She’s at the St. Luke's International Hospital in Tokyo.”

A Muggle hospital.

“Ah,” says Ichigo, his insides twisting at the implications. Any time that either of his sisters are rushed to hospital (which is thankfully few and far between), he drops everything to be at their side. Once, when Yuzu had an almost fatal experience with anaphylactic shock as a teenager, Ichigo had nearly failed his final Arithmancy exam in his sheer terror over her wellbeing.

“You have a sister?”

“Adopted,” Tōshirō replies, though his tone suggests this doesn’t change a thing. “I’m adopted, that is. I grew up with my adoptive-mother’s parents, and Momo is my adoptive-father’s niece so technically she’s my cousin, but she lived with our grandparents too and – it’s complicated. Our grandparents have passed away so I’m listed as her next of kin. And I can’t exactly take a magical dragon egg into a Muggle hospital.”

Although curious about this snippet into Tōshirō’s life, Ichigo doesn’t ask. He can understand that family matters are private, so agreeing to care for Hyorinmaru while the Astronomy professor is in Japan is easy.

“Will I – err – have to do anything specific?”

Tōshirō assures him that no, there’s nothing to be done except keep the egg hot and to not misplace him. “But you should be fine with that,” he says, finishing his tea with an expression more characteristic of the wizard Ichigo has come to know – insightful and calm, and reassured that his class and familiar will be in good hands.

Ichigo nods, happy to be in such a position of trust. “Sure, everything’ll be fine.”

 

 

Nothing is fine.

Ukitake’s soft prompting wakes Ichigo up exceedingly early on Tuesday morning, and the wizard rolls out of his bedroom in nothing but his boxers and a too-short yukata to yawn a welcome to Tōshirō. The Astronomy professor thanks him once again and hands over Hyorinmaru’s egg with a heart-warming amount of disinclination, except the four AM hour is not one Ichigo smiles to and he is far too tired to do anything more than grumble away the gratitude.

The trek back to his bed is more of a stumble in the darkness, and Ichigo doesn’t remember much of it past dozily contemplating where to put the egg. Apparently, he settles for leaving it on the bed next to him when he wakes later that morning, but he only discovers this when he turns over and the egg cartwheels to the floor.

It makes an awful splintering noise against the wooden floorboards.

Ichigo just about has a heart attack at the sound.

The next twenty minutes passes in a flurry of panicked damage inspection; it’s difficult, Ichigo finds, because the egg is covered in fissures and cracks of scales, and he has _no idea_ which ones he may have unintentionally inflicted upon the poor creature. Healing magic apparently doesn’t work on the shells of unborn magical creatures, but Ichigo alights Hyorinmaru’s glacial egg in an emerald green glow anyway, willing to try it.

Tōshirō is not going to be pleased.

Then Ichigo realises he’s late for breakfast (again) so he skips a shower (again) and rushes to his first class of the day, tucking Hyorinmaru in the duffel bag that Tōshirō had provided. He makes it in time for the bell – just – but his day continues spiralling downwards when he realises he left all of his marking in his study. Apologising to the students doesn’t help much, and though nobody but the Ravenclaws seem particularly bothered by his mishap, Ichigo feels guilty.

There isn’t enough time to fetch anything from his quarters until the end of the second period, so Ichigo has to repeat the process to the next set of students as well. He promises to deliver their work to their dormitories by the end of the day, and prays that nothing else will go wrong.

After the first break of the day, Ichigo has to teach Tōshirō’s first year class. Fortunately, Tōshirō has kept his promise to provide everything that Ichigo needs for the lesson, so Ichigo can let himself relax a fraction as he treks to the top of the Astronomy tower. Setting Hyorinmaru safely on the desk to boil away in the duffel bag, Ichigo sorts out the class’ test and lays out star charts upon each of the desks. They’re simple examples of star charts, as expected, but Ichigo is pleased to be able to answer all of the questions without so much as a second’s hesitation. He’s learning – and that’s what’s important.

With a few minutes to spare before the students arrive, Ichigo checks on Hyorinmaru. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for when he turns the egg over in his hands, but he can’t spot any glaringly obvious problems. Relieved that the morning’s tumble hadn’t caused any permanent damage (except maybe to Ichigo’s parenting skills), the Japanese wizard simply watches the egg’s brightening glow – white where it used to be grey, and pulsing steadily in his hands.

He wonders if it’s Hyorinmaru’s heartbeat, but there’s no time to consider the possibility as the bell rings overhead, and the first of the students knocks on the door. Hastily hiding the dragon egg, Ichigo forgoes tying the strings of the duffel bag to acting naturally as he bids the class entrance. The tiny eleven year olds don’t seem surprised at seeing him there, and Ichigo vows to himself to get through this class without a hitch.

The test goes well. The star chart revision goes well. In fact, everything is going well until Ichigo leaves the desk to manually gather up the question papers and one of the students at the front of the room blurts out a query over the rustling of paper:

“Sir,” he says, identifying himself as one of the Gryffindor Muggleborns as he adds in a confused tone, “Why does Professor Hitsugaya have a squished rugby ball?”

Ichigo nearly asks the student _what the hell_ he’s talking about, except when he turns to where the red-cladded boy is pointing – at the desk, and why would Ichigo have put a _sports ball_ on Tōshirō’s desk when they’re learning about _stars_? – the answer is as plain as day in front of him.

It only gets worse when one of the Ravenclaws opens her mouth and declares that the oddly shaped rugby ball is, in fact, not a rugby ball at all.

Less than an hour later, the school is abuzz with a rumoured dragon egg sighting in the Astronomy classroom.

Tōshirō is going to murder him.

“Should’ve Obliviated them,” Renji says that evening, laughing at Ichigo’s misfortune as the ginger wizard buries his face in his hands. The staff room is nearly empty, most of the professors still at dinner, so it makes the perfect place for Ichigo to complain about his day without being laughed at. Or, it would, were Renji not one of the few wizards currently slobbing around, a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat split open upon his face.

“That’s illegal, idiot,” Ichigo argues, although the idea is tempting. Maybe he should get his hands on a time-turner and whisk back five hours to stop the rumour before it explodes into reality. The memory charm doesn’t necessarily have to be involved – if he had actually taken the time to hide Hyorinmaru somewhere in the depths of the Astronomy classroom, then the dragon wouldn’t be the castle’s current spectacle.

“Jesus, Tōshirō is going to be so mad.”

Renji snorts, assuring Ichigo of his doom. “When’s he getting back?”

“Hopefully never,” the Muggle Studies professor groans, which is, of course, the moment that the door to the staff room permits said angry Astronomy professor entry, and Tōshirō strides in with a haggard expression and eyes of a dragon, searching for prey. Cursing, Ichigo considers high-tailing it back to the safety of his quarters, except Hyorinmaru’s egg starts to glow in his lap, pleased to be reunited with his partner. Aware of the resulting fatality that would ensure were he to flee with the dragon, Ichigo braces himself as Tōshirō strides over. Unsympathetic, Renji sniggers at his anxiety, and Ichigo kicks him under the coffee table.

The teal-eyed astronomer is tired, Ichigo can tell immediately. Dark shadows have blotched upon his skin, and as he yawns they seem to stretch, growing impossibly wider to emphasise his exhaustion. His walk is as swift as ever, but there’s a sluggish reluctance to it, no doubt a result of his feet yearning to rest. Yet there is a brightness in his expression that the Muggle Studies professor has come to know well, and he hands the familiar over to Tōshirō without a word.

“Thank you,” says Tōshirō.

It’s definitely not what Ichigo thought he was going to say, and the ginger man goes to apologise, except Tōshirō interrupts with another long yawn and lets the bag upon his shoulder clunk down onto the floor.

“This ain’t your bedroom,” Renji remarks, raising an eyebrow at the little professor. “But if you’re going to transfigure up a bed, Ichigo has just volunteered his chair.”

Ichigo doesn’t bother arguing that fact. Losing his chair is merely the tip of the iceberg of what he deserves for outing Hyorinmaru to the entire school.

“Very astute of you, Professor Abarai,” says Tōshirō, his subsequent sleepy hum sounding like a moment of contemplation. “I will keep that in mind if I cannot bring myself to travel over to my quarters.”

“You mean – like now?” Ichigo asks, adding his own concern to the conversation. He can guess how Tōshirō is feeling – hospital visits are stressful, and the Astronomy professor looks like a bomb waiting to explode. Hopefully his sister will be well, or Ichigo fears that Tōshirō won’t be getting much rest in the coming days. “Seriously, you look dead on your feet. Go and sleep.”

The look Tōshirō throws him suggests that the proposal is preposterous. “My classes –”

“Went fine,” Ichigo cuts in, adding a silent _until I threw your secret to the wolves_ on the end.

“The marking –”

“Has been completed and is already on your desk for tomorrow.”

“Has –”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t say –”

“Whatever it is, it’s done. The only thing that _isn’t_ is you finding your way to your bed, and I’m your friend so that means I’ve not above _levitating_ you there.”

Tōshirō shuts his mouth, looking faintly amused. Hyorinmaru is clutched tight in his arms, and the dragon egg pulses brightly in the minute of silence, as if voicing his agreement. Nodding a consensus to the creature, Ichigo casts _Wingardium Leviosa_ and floats Tōshirō’s bag up towards the dazed professor, nudging him into moving.

“I think your familiar turns people into parents,” Renji says to the Astronomy professor.

“Piss off,” says Ichigo, kicking his friend again, but he shares an awkward glance with Tōshirō as the man scoops his bag from the air.

Neither of them can offer up any evidence to counter Renji’s statement.

(Embarrassing).

“I suppose if you’re ganging up on me, I have no choice,” says the Astronomy professor glumly, although it has to be noted that he doesn’t look at all put out by this. Yawning again, he settles his bag over his shoulder and slips Hyorinmaru back into his pouch. Then, he pauses, staring at the duffel bag thoughtfully, but makes no comment about the school’s sudden knowledge about his familiar before finishing his grumble; “But I’m not surprised. Subtly isn’t exactly in your nature.”

“Being frank gets you places,” Renji argues, sounding pleased.

“Yes. _In trouble_.”

Laughing, the Alchemy professor doesn’t deny Tōshirō’s remark. Rolling his eyes at Renji’s candid amusement, Tōshirō yawns once again and decides vacating to his quarters is probably the most sensible course of action.

“Go,” Ichigo says, shooing him away. “I’ll – err – update you about your classes tomorrow, alright?”

It’s not quite an apology for his mishaps with Hyorinmaru, but the Astronomy professor accepts the arrangement and bids them goodnight. His escape from the staff room is even more sluggish than his entrance, but his expression is lighter now that his familiar is back at his side.

Letting out a sigh of relief as the Astronomy professor leaves without enacting any revenge, Ichigo allows himself to relax into the squishy support of the armchair. Certain that the worst of his day is over (because it couldn’t surely get any worse?), he flops his head back and considers closing his eyes, and across the room Professor Dumbledore skips into the staff room in his favourite emerald green and ruby red robes. Cringing at the colour scheme, Ichigo prays for salvation. A long, awkward conversation with the Headmaster isn’t what he needs right now (or ever), but it seems he doesn’t have a choice as Professor Dumbledore beelines towards him with a distinctly fond expression.

The Japanese wizard groans and wishes, not for the first time, that he could Apparate inside of the castle.

“Crap day you’re having,” Renji mumbles. “Time-turner?”

“God I _wish_ –”

“Ichigo my dear boy,” the aged wizard interrupts, smiling somewhere beneath the wonders of his beard. His eyes are light and merry as he beckons the professor over, but Father Christmas he is not, and reluctant to face such inappropriate familiarity, Ichigo obeys slowly, fighting back the urge to correct the _dear boy_ comment.

“Can I help you, Headmaster?”

Professor Dumbledore laughs and rests a hand on Ichigo’s back, encouraging him from the safety of the staffroom. “Call me Albus, please. It’s difficult to feel young when surrounded by such vibrant youths, and I have to take every opportunity that I can.”

What does one say to that other than _Err_ …?

“Not that I mind being referred to as Professor of course,” the Headmaster continues, unfazed by Ichigo’s inarticulate reply. “Even after all of these years, the novelty hasn’t worn off. There’s something so satisfying about it. I’m sure you’ll agree, especially at your age! That’s a mark of hard work and achievement, you know my boy, and I wouldn’t blame you for wishing to bask in the glory of it all.”

Ichigo supposes Professor Dumbledore is correct, except he hasn’t often thought handing hundreds of snotty, rude pre-adolescents on a daily basis for a wage many would argue as _not worth it_ as something to glorify.

“Um –”

The Headmaster laughs with his giggly _guilty-but-not-really-guilty_ laugh. “Oh dear, just listen to me. I didn’t come here to ramble to you by any means – no, in fact I merely wished to inform you that a rather cheery fellow contacted my Floo point today, asking for you. The fire made it tricky to distinguish his features, unfortunately, but he had this most _remarkable_ hat –”

“ _Kisuke_ ,” Ichigo groans, mentally rubbing a hand over his face. Silently, he takes back his comment about his day not getting any worse – where his old mentor goes, trouble follows, and Kisuke Urahara is notorious at dragging people into awkward situations with him.

“Ah, yes, that was his name!” Professor Dumbledore replies as they turn into the corridor leading to his office. He beams a childish delight at Ichigo, as if he had _really_ let Kisuke’s name pass over his head, and the Muggle Studies professor resists the urge to flee. Although well-respected and highly deserving of such, Professor Dumbledore’s quirks are still high on Ichigo’s _avoid at all costs_ list. He knows the ancient wizard means no harm, but there is only so much of being treated like a five year old that Ichigo can take. The Headmaster’s habit of patronising and praising people in the same sentence is ridiculous, and Ichigo is up to _here_ with his irritation.

At least when Kisuke thinks he’s being dumb, he tells Ichigo straightforwardly, without any of his usual beating-around-the-bush comments. Professor Dumbledore _giggles_ around the issue and offers little _puppy-worthy_ pats, and it’s just infuriating.

(Seriously – what _is_ with all the patting?)

“ _Aha_ ,” says Professor Dumbledore, his voice a cheery hum. He opens his arms in a welcoming gesture, simultaneously freeing Ichigo from the dubious circumference of his personal bubble, and beams like a grandfather at the shrouded figure loitering beside the griffin guard.

Ichigo knows it is too late to flee even as the Headmaster calls out, “Severus! What brings you to my office on such a fine evening?”

The Potions Master levels the Headmaster with an expression of dull contempt. The endless drapes of his midnight attire emphasise his lack of enthusiasm – seeming to be darkness personified into a half-wizard, half-bat like creature, Severus Snape merely sighs at Professor Dumbledore’s delight. Ichigo can understand his reluctance, but there is little else he shares with the Potions Master. Professor Snape is excellent at what he does, there is no doubt, but Ichigo refuses to associate with such a bull-tempered and foul bully of a man. He cannot claim to understand the workings of Professor Snape’s mind by any means, and although Ichigo is sure he is far more complicated than most give him credit for, this doesn’t change his loathsome personality.

Yet they are in Professor Dumbledore’s presence, so Ichigo inclines in head in pretence of respect, and smothers his smile when he thinks of how his sisters would scold him.

The Potions Master ignores him. “Your perception of _fine_ is open to interpretation, Headmaster, and I have a matter of importance to discuss with you,” he drones, taking a tiny step back to allow Professor Dumbledore to invite them up to his office. Little space is created with the motion, but the Headmaster hardly seems to notice as he skirts around his Potions professor and asks the griffin to let them past.

Ichigo scowls at the impoliteness but holds his tongue. His manners aren’t exactly perfect so blowing up about Professor Snape’s behaviour would be an exaggeration, but the blatant disregard irks him anyway.

Professor Dumbledore beckons them to follow, guiding Professor Snape with a sweeping gesture to lead on. They mutter between themselves as they ascend, the words lost to the Muggle Studies professor. Ichigo hesitates at the foot of the stairs and wonders if he should be trespassing on their conversation, but the griffin guard stares down at him and tilts his great, carved head, and he dutifully treks up to the office in response.

“– I do not think –”

“– hardly anything to worry about, Severus –”

His fellow professors are paces ahead of him as they enter the Headmaster’s office, but Ichigo can still catch snippets of their conversation. He tries not to listen (absently wondering why they haven’t cast privacy charms), but it’s difficult to stay out of range when Professor Dumbledore’s office ushers him inside, the door knocking him in its urgency to close.

 “– but so soon –?”

“– _Harry Potter_ –”

Fawkes trills a greeting but is ignored by the whispering pair as they argue around Professor Dumbledore’s desk. Hovering by the door and desperate for a reason to be in the room, Ichigo holds out him arm in invitation, raising an eyebrow. The phoenix blinks fire at him for a second and Ichigo wonders if he’s just made a huge mistake, but then the beautiful bird soars over, warbling happily.

“You wouldn’t happen to be up for flashing me out of here, would you?” he asks the creature, gently stroking its feathers. The phoenix is almost blistering to the touch, but Ichigo’s skin never burns with the caress, not even when Fawkes shakes his head and scatters wisps and sparks across the floor.

“Didn’t think so,” Ichigo mumbles, glancing at the two professors out of the corner of his eyes. Whatever they’re talking about doesn’t sound like the Headmaster’s usual choice of topic, and Professor Snape looks even more miserable than usual, if such a thing is even possible. Why they’re having such a conversation within earshot of him is beyond Ichigo, but he tries to tune it out as best he can anyway – his parents taught him better manners than eavesdropping.

Or his mother did, at any least.

Isshin is all sorts of questionable.

The Japanese wizard sighs as his colleagues continue to ignore him and contemplates simply using the fireplace without expressed permission.  At the phoenix’s short trill he decides against it, returning his attention to stroking the graceful ball of fire.

“Guess I’ll just have to wait to use the Floo...” he mumbles, considering. The phoenix is better company than the Headmaster and the Potions professor, but Ichigo’s not particularly surprised. “What do you think, Fawkes?”

Fawkes drives his head down and pecks him.

Ichigo’s wild yelp attracts the attention of the other occupants; even the paintings, spitting arguments between themselves, startle and turn two dozen stares of astonishment down at him. Professor Snape’s robes flare in an aggressive dance as he swivels around, but the Headmaster lays a hand on his shoulder before fury can be effective wielded and laughs at the innocent expression of his familiar.

“Ah, Professor Kurosaki. Please excuse us, I forgot you were there for a moment. The Floo connection should still be available for you, so please go ahead and use it. Professor Snape and I will just be in the back room discussing a matter relating to the new school year. I’m sure Fawkes will be happy to keep you company though.”

Ichigo returns a hasty consensus and ignores the Potion Master’s eye roll in favour of glaring daggers down at the scarlet creature wiggling guilty on his arm.

“ _Fawkes you little shit_ ,” he hisses at the bird, low enough so that neither of the older wizards catches his curse as they retreat into a more private section of the room. His shoulder burning like the remnants of a stinging hex, Ichigo clambers around the refined mess that Professor Dumbledore has collected throughout his life. Somewhere behind him, the click of a door closing cuts off the next furious huff from Professor Snape, although Ichigo pays it little mind. Kisuke isn’t going to wait forever to talk to him, so he chucks a handful of international floo powder into the fireplace and hopes his mentor is still available when the flames _whoosh_ with an unnatural plum purple.

Now that they are alone in the cluttered expanse of the office, Fawkes warbles an apology to the Muggle Studies professor, head butting him like a cat. Ichigo rolls his eyes at the remorseful behaviour and pats the bird’s little head, hushing him softly. Anger is impossible to maintain in the face of the phoenix’s gentle beauty. Fawkes is elegant and fierce as any wildfire, but he is characterised by a dorkiness more bearable than Professor Dumbledore’s.

Ichigo wonders if it’s possible to have a familiar of life personified when your patronus is a thestral.

The floo rushes back at him then, signalling company with bright wisps and cracks of fire. Giving the door Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape had snuck through once last glance, Ichigo leans forward to let the flames consume him. On his shoulder, Fawkes hops closer, and the professor only has a moment to wonder if the floo network accommodates magical creatures before he is blinking into Kisuke’s quarters in Karakura’s magical school.

Violet fading into pink about him, Ichigo almost misses the movement in the corner of his eyes. Stripy hat donned and emerald green cloak chasing the clip-clop of his shoes, Kisuke settles himself down beside the fireplace, beaming happiness at the jagged edges of Ichigo’s face in the flames. Behind him, Yoruichi pounces closer, her tail swishing from side to side.

“Ichigo, there you are,” says the Potions Master, tipping the brim of his hat back. “I do hope I haven’t pulled you away from something important.”

“Right, like anything is more important than your research,” Ichigo replies, recognising a jest when he hears one. “But no, I was just in the staff room.”

 _Hiding_ , he doesn’t add, but Kisuke smiles as if legilimency is possible through a floo connection and he frequents in reading the shamefaced thoughts of his students. He doesn’t, Ichigo knows, which makes his ex-mentor a far better person than the current Potions Master that Ichigo tries not to associate with.

“I don’t need to resort to illegal methods to know what you’re thinking, Ichigo,” Kisuke says without any prompting, laughing at his student’s disgruntled expression.

Ichigo raises his eyebrows. Next to him, Fawkes wiggles closer so that the lone feather atop of his trails into the fireplace. “When has legality ever stopped you from doing anything?” the Muggle Studies professor asks, thinking back to the numerous mishaps they had shared during his final year of Potions.

“Plenty of times!” the blond wizard chimes, holding a hand against his chest as if struck a fatal blow. “I’m insulted you think so lowly of me!”

“Uh-huh,” Ichigo deadpans. “You want me to floo Shinji…?”

Kisuke laughs nervously, but Ichigo’s threat is nothing more than a half-hearted joke so he doesn’t seem too unsettled by the idea.

Ichigo is capable of fighting his own battles, even if setting Shinji Hirako on the workaholic wizard and sitting back to watch the chaos is completely worth the blow to his pride.

“Now, now, don’t be hasty – I have managed to find the information that you were after.” The Potions Master retrieves his wand and summons a stack of notes towards him, swiftly apologising when some of the papers slip free of the pile and flop down onto Yoruichi’s lazing form. “Right, let’s see. The First Wizarding War… hmmhm… Death Eaters… Hmm, somewhere in here is the page on the Order…”

Ichigo watches him flick through the pages with a growing sense of unease. “Err Kisuke? Are you going to be telling me stuff that neither of us should technically know, by any chance?”

Kisuke blinks, looking startled at the question. “Of course.”

On the floor, Yoruichi yawns and turns over, her paws sliding against the wizard’s leg.

“Great,” Ichigo says, for the lack of anything else to say. “Just checking. Hey Fawkes, you’re not going to get me in trouble for this, are you? I know Professor Dumbledore said to keep me company, but I’d rather you not relay all of my secrets to the Headmaster afterwards.”

He imagines they won’t be discussing _his_ secrets, but Fawkes trills and hops back to his perch anyway. It’s the closest Ichigo is going to get to privacy, and he supposes this way the phoenix can deny witnessing the dubious behaviour of a professor if ever asked. Grateful, the ginger wizard turns back to the paper rustling of his mentor and waits with dread to hear when Kisuke’s researching skills have managed to scour.

He’d asked for information on Voldemort and Harry Potter, not a file’s worth of notes that will bury him neck deep in trouble that he won’t be able to get out of.

(But when has Kisuke _ever_ refused to cease investigating something brewing with danger and reeking of a political bog?)

(Never. Exactly. Ichigo should have expected it).

Kisuke _aha_ s when he finds what he’s looking for. Tugging out the page from the pile and smoothing down its creased and folded secrets, he hums to himself – thoughtfully, undecidedly, as if he’s suddenly uncertain whether he should be sharing such knowledge. Yet just a moment later he is smiling again, the round of his favourite hat shadowing the triumphant shine in his eyes into something sinister and sly that Ichigo instantly recognises.

Listening for the sound of his colleagues’ argument before leaning into the fireplace a little further, Ichigo presses his lips together and wonders just how far Kisuke has managed to dig.

“The First Wizarding War began in nineteen-seventy when Lord Voldemort – that is, _the Dark Lord_ – attempted to revolt against the British Ministry of Magic,” the Potions Master begins, skimming over the next paragraph. Ichigo has already researched parts of the Wizarding War, but at least with his knowledge being clarified he won’t have to do so again. “His following were witches and wizards called _Death Eaters_ – they were primarily named the _Knights of Walpurgis_ , but I imagine their practicing of the Dart Arts and extremist Pureblood views led them to change their name to something more people would understand and fear. It’s catchier too, and nothing beats a catchy title –”

“Kisuke.”

“Ah, yes, right – the Death Eaters aimed to eradicate Muggleborns and Muggles alike, but eventually targeted powerful wizarding families – the Bones, the Prewetts, and all those that tried to stop the massacre and overthrow of the government. Voldemort’s aims led to Albus Dumbledore forming a group – _an Order_ – of people to stand against him, including Harry Potter’s parents, James and Lily Potter. Little information about this group is available – wartime secrets have to be protected, of course – so I cannot tell you the exact name of Dumbledore’s following. However, they worked closely with the Ministry of Magic to fight against the Death Eaters, and many members were killed before they did eventually succeed.”

As grim as it must have been, it sounds just like every other conflict the wizarding world has ever seen. Humans are slow to change their ways, and the wizarding cultures are no different. Ichigo nods his understanding and casts his mind back to the knowledge he holds. In the moment of quiet, Fawkes starts to sing from Professor Dumbledore’s office, melancholy and soft.

“Including Harry’s parents?” the ginger wizard asks, recalling their death as the war reached its end.

“No, not quite,” says Kisuke, shuffling through his papers again. “Towards the end of the war, a prophecy regarding Voldemort came into being. The exact words have never been written down –”

 _But you know them_ , Ichigo thinks, hardly surprised. Kisuke’s knack at retrieving information he definitely shouldn’t be able to get a hold of is the main reason he had enlisted his ex-mentor’s help after all.

“– but the prophecy claimed that a person with the power to vanquish Voldemort would be born towards the end of July. When Harry Potter was born on the thirty-first of July, nineteen-eighty, the Potter family went into hiding, most likely under the fidelius charm.”

 _Well that’s a spell for disaster_ , Ichigo adds cynically. He can tell which unfortunate path Kisuke’s account is heading towards.

“They were betrayed, weren’t they?” he says, scowling into the purple flames. Although he phrases it as a question, Nanao had given him enough books for him to learn about the death of the two Potters and the tangle of mystery and unanswered questions that surrounds it. “Somebody revealed their location to Voldemort, didn’t they? And so Voldemort tracked them down and attempted to kill Harry, except…”

The Potions Master nods at Ichigo’s deduction and lays his papers aside. “He failed for reasons that are still unclear to me,” he states, his admittance of uncertainty surprising the Muggle Studies professor.

“The killing curse rebounded,” Ichigo says, raising his eyebrows. The statement sounds just as ridiculously improbable on his tongue than it does in his head, but there’s little else to go on. The countless history tomes he had toiled through all claimed the same thing.

“Yes, but that’s only an answer that leads to more questions. Why did it rebound? How? Did it really, or is there some other factor involved that we may never uncover? Unforgiveable curses function on intent after all, and it seems unlikely that a one year old child could have had such a malicious intention towards Voldemort to result in the _killing curse_ rebounding.”

“Unless… it wasn’t something Harry did?”

“Plausible,” says Kisuke, inclining his head. Absentmindedly, he begins to stroke the short black fur on Yoruichi’s tummy. The cat’s purrs are loud in the unknown of their conversation. “More so. But either way, with Voldemort’s disappearance the Death Eaters disbanded and the war came to an end some ten years ago.”

Ichigo _uh-huhs_ doubtfully. He has spent plenty time enough to gain an insight into the workings of Kisuke Urahara’s brilliant mind. “But you don’t think that.”

The blond wizard laughs. “Of course not. There’s too much _speculation_. There’s evidence to _suggest_ that Voldemort was killed that night, but there is no _proof_. Until such a time, it is only ignorance to belief that the war has truly ended.”

Positive outlooks definitely aren’t Kisuke’s speciality.

“But if that’s true,” Ichigo goes on slowly, trying to organise his thoughts to match his mentor’s. “How did he survive? The killing curse is unstoppable – it’s not as if he could’ve used a time turner to reset his life back to before he made a mistake, or used magic to _clone himself_ so there’s multiple versions of him running around killing people, and when one of them dies he can just copy himself again –”

“ _Copies_ ,” the Potions Master hums, cutting off the increasing improbability of Ichigo’s rambling with a clap of his hands. The sharp sound startles the Muggle Studies professor, but used to the unpredictableness of Kisuke’s mind, Yoruichi merely stretches and curls into a more comfortable position. She does offer a yelping complaint when the wizard jumps to his feet and scatters the file of papers across the floor, dashing off to one of the bookcases along the far wall.

“Hey, Kisuke!” Ichigo calls, watching his mentor summon various gold-bound books towards him from the odd angle the fireplace provides. “Kisuke – don’t tell me it’s actually possible to do that?”

“No, no, that would be barbaric,” the wizard replies, but he continues flicking through a particularly massive tome anyway, looking for a sliver of knowledge or reference that Ichigo cannot comprehend. “Magic cannot make physical, living, breathing copies of a human, although many have tried.”

“But…?”

“ _But_ – research,” is the unhelpful reply. Yoruichi hisses as Kisuke rushes back her, almost tramping on the sleekness of her tail, but the Potions Master ignores her as he continues scurrying about the room.

Ichigo slumps further into the floo connection. The complaint he grumbles to the feline is one of fond familiarity, and Yoruichi laughs. They have long since grown used to Kisuke’s hap-hazardous ways, and they both secretly enjoy observing the scientific genius chasing down an idea even though they whine to each other about it.

“You have a theory, don’t you?”

Kisuke pushes a stack of books aside. They topple from the desk with the harsh treatment, but safely levitate back to the bookcase before they can clunk against the floor. “Hmm…” he says almost a full minute later, apparently having heard Ichigo’s question from the fireplace. “Yes, I do. But it is… farfetched.”

“ _Everything_ you come up with is farfetched,” Yoruichi mutters, burying her face under her paws.

Ichigo huffs amusement and glances up at the clock in Kisuke’s quarters, wondering why Professor Dumbledore hasn’t asked him to leave yet. He can’t tell if their conversation has ended yet, but he’s sure he would have heard Professor Snape’s angry departure. That man stalks the corridors like thunder rolling.

Deciding that he should be getting back to the endless mountain of marking on his day anyway, Ichigo cuts to the chase. “Are you going to share?” he asks, shoving aside his mentor’s dilly-dallying.

Kisuke actually _hesitates_.

“Forget it, don’t answer that,” Ichigo grumbles, equal amounts of dread and exhilaration rising with the Potion Master’s expression. Kisuke is a fantastic wizard, but _Christ_ he’s such a bad influence.

(But what can Ichigo say? He asks for it most of the time).

“Thanks for digging around for me,” he adds, shrugging his gratitude. The flames of the floo quiver around him, trying to accommodate the motion of his shoulders in the restricted space. The purple tint about his vision is more of a bubble-gum pink haze now, and Ichigo concludes that the floo powder is reaching its limit. He’ll have to retreat lest he wants his head to end up on the other side of the world when the spell ends.

“You’re welcome,” Kisuke singsongs, attempting a smile over the top of a book. “I will… get back to you about this.”

That’s the best Ichigo is going to get for now. He thanks his mentor again before ducking from the floo, closing down the connection. Fawkes welcomes him back to Scotland with a happy chirp, but he is the only other occupant of the office. Surprised, Ichigo heaves himself up from the floor and dusts himself down, his knees aching from being stationary. The phoenix tilts his head in question and coos, and Ichigo feels the same.

“Straight answers shouldn’t be so difficult to get, huh Fawkes? Guess you’d understand that, being Professor Dumbledore’s familiar and all.”

He strokes the bird’s head, calming as Fawkes’ warmth tickles his skin.

The phoenix trills his agreement.

 

 

The castle’s mood blossoms as spring uncurls from winter’s clutches. Scotland doesn’t give a warm welcome to the changing season by any means, but as the last of the snow melts away and the sun ventures further from beneath its blanket of cloud, the students and staff are happy to pack away their gloves and scarves for another year. With the brightening weather, students dare to eat, study, and relax outside, and lessons on the grounds are something to look forward again. The castle seems to empty as March bursts into April, and Ichigo isn’t the only professor glad of the change. Restlessness increases rowdiness during the winter months. Students are more challenging to deal with when the days are short and the nights, ever long, are cold. Christmas is a much-needed break for them all, but it’s not enough to sooth their restricted, tired tempers.

Ichigo takes to teaching a select few of his classes outside. His O.W.L classes are too large to risk the change of setting without any practice, so he firstly attempts the switch with his sixth and seventh years. His sixth years hardly seem fazed as they spread their textbooks across the grass and flop down in a wonky circle. The seventh year class, on the other hand, react like kittens in a barrel of catnip – the seventeen and eighteen year olds (adults, all of them) gush and smile and laugh and beg him to organise all of their classes in the same way. Their hopeful, childish eyes sway him over – Ichigo has never seen such a wild display of enthusiasm from seventeen year olds before, but their cry of happiness almost deafens him.

How can he deny them something as simple as lecturing outside when their work is frankly perfect?

Their excitement is slightly worrying though.

He thinks it’s the final year stress bleeding through.

Muggle Studies classes aren’t the only ones to relocate. Near the collection of greenhouses by the edge of the castle, Professor Sprout can often be seen leading a whole hoard of students in the distance, her crocked, patchwork hat bobbing up and down as she plods along. Her classes nearly always return covered in muck and grime, but the students’ laughter can he heard from all around the hill surrounding the castle. Ichigo wonders what weird plants and wildlife Professor Sprout introduces to her class, but he knows that the possibilities are endless in the magical world.

Rukia’s Art students can frequently be found dotted around the grounds, sketching the castle turrets, painting the edge of the Forbidden Forest, or reimagining Hagrid’s pumpkin patch into a battleground of monsters and mythical creatures. The professor herself usually leaves her class to their own devices and hovers around Ichigo’s lessons instead, whispering sarcastic comments and spelling his hair different colours much to the amusement of the students. Ichigo complains at all the right moments, threatening his friend with his typical glower, but since she ensures that any changes aren’t permanent, he can’t say he particularly minds having his classes gate-crashed.

His mood does depend on who is doing the gate-crashing though. Most of his uninvited guests he doesn’t mind – Professor McGonagall drops around once (probably to check that Ichigo is actually teaching), and Filius is eager to participate in the class when Ichigo demonstrates the function of whatever Muggle technology he could get his hands and magic on. His lessons on Muggle warfare attract a _lot_ of attention once Ichigo manages to gain permission from the Headmaster to exhibit a variety of World War II service rifles and handguns. The likelihood that he terrifies both students and professors alike is high when he fires the one of the Japanese bolt-action rifles, but Ichigo is too busy being impressed that he actually managed to get the damn thing to work in magical boundaries to notice that he blasted the target directly from the roof of Hagrid’s hut.

His mum had been a brilliant shot.

Ichigo likes firearms better than bow and arrows though.

He bumps into the Ancient Runes class once as he ushers his own students back up to the castle. Rukia’s brother is not an out-going, social man by any means, so Ichigo is surprised to see the royally robed man herding a class of sixth years out of the gates. The relationship between the two professors is civil, and while they share some brotherly understanding, it’s not always sunshine and daisies when they converse. Mostly, this is probably due to Ichigo’s insistence on calling Professor Kuchiki by his first name, much to the man’s great vexation, but there are other differences between them as well. However, Ichigo greets the professor warmly when they pass at Hogwarts’ entrance, raising his eyebrows when he recognises Byakuya’s intention to teach outside.

“They’ve been watching your classes for weeks, growing ever more jealous,” the Ancient Runes professor explains calmly, the slightest twitch to his mouth the only indication of any emotion. His class ambles past him with a youthful excitement, chatting about the best place to make their study circle, and Byakuya looks like he wants to sigh. “They insisted.”

Ichigo laughs and clamps the wizard on the shoulder, wishing him luck.

He looks like he’ll need it.

It is, however, during one of Ichigo’s fourth year classes inside of the castle that he receives his most unwelcome visit. For once, it isn’t actually Professor Dumbledore’s overly cheery presence that makes Ichigo want to punch something, but rather the man that the Headmaster has trailing along behind him. Fridays are the most challenging day of the week – students are restless for the weekend, and staff are reaching the end of their ropes with reigning them in – and so Ichigo isn’t in the mood to have one of his classes observed. Yet he doesn’t have any choice in the matter when Professor Dumbledore skips his way in through the door, effectively throwing the class to a standstill as every single student hastily attempts to hide their doodles and dung bombs. The studious pretence is laughable, but Ichigo doesn’t feel like laughing.

If he notices the awkward atmosphere in the classroom, the Headmaster ignores it. “Aha, Professor Kurosaki,” he chimes, the fact that he uses Ichigo’s title for once causing the Muggle Studies professor to raise his eyebrows. “Working hard are we? Please do continue with your class – I’m merely giving our new _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ professor for the new year a tour of the castle, so don’t mind us.”

Ichigo nods but doesn’t return to teaching his class. Instead, he turns his attention to the man peering nervously into the room; ghostly pale and frail enough that one gust of wind would surely knock him over, the stranger is robed in the deep purples of a bruise with a turban to match. Older than Ichigo, but probably not by much, the wizard twitches as if a Muggle Studies classroom is something to be deathly afraid of. Concluding that the man is likely a Pureblood or a moron (or both), Ichigo offers the new professor his welcome and has to stifle a groan when the wizard jumps out of his skin.

Dubbing the introductory meetings for the DADA position _meet-the-new-professor-before-he-dies-a-brutal-death_ makes a lot more sense now.

“I-I-I-It’s nice to m-meet you,” says the wizard after mumbling his name, returning a tiny smile to the Muggle Studies professor. His eyes shift across the room with frantic motions, and the students gape back at him, sharing amused glances with each other.

Ichigo cringes, feeling bad for the guy. Clearly being introduced to so many new people and places at once is too much for Quirinus Quirrell, so why Professor Dumbledore is subjecting him to a tour is beyond Ichigo. In fact, if the prospect of talking to people frightens Quirrell so much, what is he doing signing up to become a professor? There are plenty of other jobs available – teaching isn’t for everybody, and Ichigo can’t help but wonder how long he’ll last in his new position.

Teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts is a tough role to fill.

Still, Ichigo vows to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps Quirrell will feel more comfortable once he has settled into the castle – Ichigo knows he did. Hogwarts is an endless labyrinth of corridors and secret passages, but the most frightening thing inside of its walls is Professor Snape. Quirrell isn’t going to be able to top that, so there should be nothing for the man to worry about.

Or, Ichigo hopes so. Quirrell may be a trembling mass of stress and anxiety behind Professor Dumbledore’s sparkling smile, but there’s something… weird about him. As the Headmaster starts to chat to some of the students near the front, drawing attention away from the new professor, Quirrell’s sickly face doesn’t gain any colour, and the darting motions of his eyes seem to increase as he shuffles on the spot, picking at his robes, scratching his cheek, and adjusting his turban. He’s clearly fidgeting, and Ichigo almost wants to chalk it down to nerves. But the more he watches the quivering wizard, the less decisive he feels.

Ichigo can’t explain it, so he’s probably overthinking.

It’s Friday, and he’s tired and stressed. Quirrell is probably just the same.

He finds himself bringing the topic up the next morning as the first students start to trickle into the Great Hall for breakfast, and it is only as Rukia’s expression deepens with contemplation does Ichigo realise how much his encounter with the new professor had been bothering him. There are few people in the Great Hall at this time of morning that could eavesdrop onto their conversation, so Ichigo blurts out the question around a piece of toast before he can think better of it. If Professor Dumbledore were breakfasting, he would probably disapprove of his professors’ unease, but for once, the elder Headmaster appears to be sleeping in, most likely recovering from the awkward tour of the castle the night before.

“You met the new professor yesterday?” Rukia asks, her lavender eyes betraying nothing.

“Yeah,” Ichigo confirms, shrugging. He doesn’t mean to sound suspicious of Quirrell, but something about the pale-faced wizard just doesn’t sit right with him. Sleeping on the thought hadn’t dispelled it, and if Rukia’s discreet behaviour is anything to go by, Ichigo isn’t the only one with doubts. “What did you think of him? Bit of a nervous wreck, right?”

Rukia tries to hide her smile, but Ichigo catches it before the goblet of pumpkin juice smothers it. “Yes, he did seem… a bit uncertain of himself. Renji is entertaining the notion of calling him _Professor Squirrel_.”

Ichigo sucks in a slab of bacon and chokes.

His friend sips her drink, smirk revealing her amusement as he hacks and splutters around his food. “This is why you shouldn’t eat English breakfasts,” the Art professor quips, looking unimpressed at his misfortune.

“Gah – _fuck_ – couldn’t you have waited till I was finishing eating before telling me that? _Professor Squirrel_. Jesus Christ, that’s going to stick.” Ichigo shakes his head, slurping down a jug of water to sooth his aching throat. “Where is Renji anyway?”

“Quidditch. He’s overseeing Gryffindor’s training this morning since Madame Hooch broke her leg yesterday.”

“She did? How’d she manage that?”

“Bludger.” The witch rolls her eyes to express her distaste for the game. “One of the Ravenclaw Beaters hit it wide in yesterday’s match. It almost crashed into the staff’s viewing stand, but Professor Dumbledore diverted it. Madame Hooch was injured trying to draw it back onto the pitch.”

The noise in the Great Hall rises as the breakfast hour ticks over, more and more students rolling out of their beds for a lazy Saturday morning. Ichigo frowns into his tea, wondering if he’s being ridiculous for dwelling on the new professor. “Huh. Yesterday? Do you think that’s why Quirrell’s so jumpy?”

Rukia seems to consider it, but only for a moment. Catching her hesitant expression, Ichigo nods his agreement before she can say anything, and stabs the last of his bacon with a threatening glare.

“Yeah,” he says carefully, shrugging again as if the topic is of no importance. “I doubt it too. Still, maybe he’ll have sorted out whatever’s wrong by September. The next school year isn’t for a few more months anyway.”

“Perhaps,” says Rukia. “You should be worrying about your students’ exams anyway – this _is_ your first year after all.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ichigo grumbles.

 

 

Unfortunately for him, there is little else on the student body’s mind as the end of the year approaches. Ichigo finds himself swamped by their stress and last minute revision demands. His O.W.L students spend most of their time making high-pitched panicked sounds, but his N.E.W.T students are more subtle in their breakdown – the final year students, especially, seem to be coping well right up until the first week of June. Once the official exam timetables are released to the students, a bomb of teenage terror hits the school. Ichigo feels sick just struggling through the backlash, but he drowns himself in pepperup potions and painkillers to keep his frazzling nerves together. He has to – if he falls apart, then his students fall apart. He has been in their situation before, so he knows exactly what they’re going through.

Being able to do practically nothing about it is horrible. Some students cope with stress well, having planned and revised early into the year to keep on top of their studies, but Ichigo knows that most students aren’t like that. A select few push _last minute_ to the absolute limits, and the responsibility Ichigo feels for their misery haunts him at night even though the back of his mind whispers that they brought it upon themselves.

June drags on. By the time the first week of exams have passed, Ichigo has stopped asking himself how many hours of sleep he’s missing. The other professors feel the strain too, but years of experience have perfected their defences. Unused to having a hundred students begging him to hold up the world, Ichigo has only sheer determination and the promise of a long, restful summer to drive him through the month.

The moment his last N.E.W.T exam finishes and the students stumble out of the Great Hall is the day Ichigo realises that his work has paid off. When his Hufflepuff students exit close to tears and find him pacing nervously, Ichigo just about has a heart attack. But then the Gryffindor boy – adult, really – barrels over and roars about how _amazing_ the paper was and _Professor, Professor you should have seen it! It was brilliant – I could answer everything!_ and the rest of the class, even the teary badgers, nod along, Ichigo has to stop himself from falling asleep for a week right there outside the hall in relief.

He just about manages to crawl back to his quarters before fulfilling that promise. Nobody disturbs him all afternoon. Even Shiro, who has taken to frantically bobbing his head up and down every time Ichigo passes, leaves him be.

It isn’t until the students return home and June slips into a welcome July that Ichigo can bring himself to do more with his day than the barest minimum. Despite the summer holiday being upon him, Ichigo plans to use the castle as home base until August. His home in London is waiting for him, but Ichigo only uses it sparingly throughout the month, preferring to spend most of the time he isn’t travelling or completely errands in the company of the castle. Most professors return home during the summer, but Hogwarts is never empty. July and August are the perfect opportunity for the staff to study their own research areas and improve their knowledge for the new school year, and Ichigo makes good use of the library now that Madame Pince isn’t stalking the halls.

When he isn’t working, Ichigo treks up the Astronomy tower to bother Tōshirō. Rukia and Renji have both returned to Japan for the holidays, but Shiro never ceases exchanging mail as the weeks pass. The eagle owl needs the work out at any rate, although Ichigo doesn’t dare mention this to Shiro’s face. Instead, he rambles and vents to Tōshirō, and simply enjoys the company the quiet Astronomer and his familiar can offer.

Hyorinmaru is taking his time to hatch, but Tōshirō doesn’t appear worried. Rather, he spends his day with the glacial egg in his lap, tracing the grooves and cracks with his fingertips. The map of mystery that characterises the eggshell is second nature to the Astronomy professor now; with the school aware of the dragon’s existence, Tōshirō could bond with his unhatched familiar to his content. It’s only a matter of time until the Icelandic Dustdevil is zipping around the tower, chasing comets and jumping along planets. Tōshirō is going to have his work cut out for him – in fact, the entire staff are. Hogwarts is soon to house its first dragon, and Ichigo is looking forward to it in a giddy, parental sort of fashion.

“You realise the entire student body is going to dote upon your familiar, right?” Ichigo asks one afternoon, handing over a plate of scones to his friend as the House Elf from the kitchens _pops_ away to fetch some more green tea.

“I am aware,” says Tōshirō, thanking him. He balances the plate on the tip of Hyorinmaru’s egg as he reaches for a knife, and Ichigo laughs, wondering if the dragon minds substituting a table top.

The resulting _crack_ of the shell that splinters around the tower answers that question.

“ _Holy fuck_ ,” Ichigo blurts, half-leaping forward to check the damage. The icy diamond of an egg cracks again like a tiny thunderstorm approaching, and its brilliant glow flares bright enough that Ichigo has to squint. Shielding his eyes, the Muggle Studies professor doesn’t understand the implications of the change until the egg gives a mighty wobble, almost tumbling from Tōshirō’s lap.

“Ah,” Tōshirō breathes. “He’s hatching.”

He picks up the plate of scones and sets it aside without any rush. Then, he puts down the knife with the calmest, most collected movement that Ichigo has ever seen, and pours himself another cup of tea as if it’s most logical response to having a dragon egg start to hatch in your lap.

The House Elf appears then, setting down a second teapot. Tōshirō thanks him and checks the new batch of tea, and the Elf disappears with a quick bow, unfazed by the drama unfolding.

Ichigo flops back into the armchair and waits for his heart to burst out of his chest.

“Hmm,” the Astronomy professor says after a moment, the egg splintering again. He glances up at Ichigo, bright eyes assessing the twitch of the ginger’s hands and his slouch in the chair. “You’re far calmer than I expected you to be.”

“Dad’s a doctor,” Ichigo replies, realising that he must look a lot more collected than he feels. To Tōshirō’s credit, Ichigo doesn’t want to run around the room laughing his head off like some fathers-to-be are known to do, but his body is itching to move. Where to, he has no idea, but sitting around drinking tea is _not_ his ideal method of coping with the birth of dragon. “Is there anything I can do?”

The egg lurches again and Tōshirō pulls it closer to his stomach, holding it protectively. The glow upon its cosmic surface has dimmed now, but white light now seems to spill out of the cracks as if reaching for the life of the outside world.

“Could you fetch Hagrid-san for me?” asks the stargazer.

“Hagrid? The gamekeeper?”

Tōshirō _hmhm_ s. “He’s always wanted a dragon.”

Believing it best not to delve into the conversations of the two dragon-enthusiasts, Ichigo casts a patronus. In the mystic shine of the thestral, Tōshirō’s eyebrows shoot up, the wizard clearing having not expected such a method. That, or Tōshirō recognises the omen for what it is, but that’s also a conversation that Ichigo would rather not get into. Saying nothing, the auburn haired man relays a message and gives his patronus a gentle shove towards the door, prompting haste. The patronus merely snouts indignation as it eyes the doorway, but as Hyorinmaru’s shell starts to crumble away, it obediently gives a great flap of its wings and disappears.

The Astronomer sips his tea. The only clue of his nerves is the soft _tap-tap-tap_ of his fingers against the eggshell, drumming endlessly. Ichigo watches the erratic rhythm for a minute, hoping his patronus can find the gamekeeper before it’s too late, before deciding _what the hell_ and pouring himself a drink.

Hagrid thunders into the room in record timing, his great, rectangular head bowed as he heaves in long gasps of air, wheezing from his run up the tower staircase. Scarlet-faced and bushy beard tangled and windswept from his journey, the gigantic gamekeeper trudges across the room. Despite the meteor shower scattering across the ceiling and the golden globes of sun and stars throughout the room, Hagrid only has eyes for the dragon egg in Tōshirō’s lap.

Beckoning him over, the Astronomy professor enlarges one of the teacups with a tap of his wand, offering tea. Dumbfounded, Hagrid perches himself on the empty armchair and tentatively takes the mug, looking for all intents and purposes like an exhilarated boy being gifted a puppy.

Ichigo smiles, sharing a glance with Tōshirō.

Above them, Reinmuth Two collides with Jupiter and spirals into Saturn.

One silvery wing pokes out from the top of the eggshell, the limb almost translucent as it stretches and scrabbles in its search for something to cling to. There is a collective intake of breath as the egg tips over into Tōshirō’s navy robes and shatters at the base, a serpentine tail crashing through the icy layer. What is left of the egg wiggles as the hatchling tries to align itself. At Tōshirō’s huff of laughter, Hyorinmaru’s tiny head pops out, his angular jaw parting to greet the classroom with a grumbling growl and a sneeze of slush. Snowflakes dancing in the air, the Icelandic Dustdevil scrambles out of the scaly confine; carefully, Tōshirō peels away the eggshell shards and is rewarded by a clumsy swat from an uncooperative, uncoordinated wing.

Hagrid looks ready to burst into tears.

(And honesty? So does Tōshirō).

“Hello Hyorinmaru,” says the Astronomy professor, wiggling a finger over the dragon’s nose. Hyorinmaru’s ruby eyes blink as they attempt to focus, and it takes a few seconds for the hatchling to register the sound of Tōshirō’s voice. The dragon coos and sneezes again, lifting its arctic head to stare at the wizard’s hand.

“He’s beautiful,” Hagrid’s thick accent blubbers as the hatchling tumbles over himself in his haste to reach Tōshirō. Hyorinmaru growls again, testing his vocal cords, and wobbles in his partner’s lap, looking more like a deformed, dinosaur-shaped ice cube than some glorious mythical creature.

“He’s smaller than I expected him to be,” Ichigo muses.

Tōshirō laughs, stroking underneath the dragon’s chin to elicit gurgling coos. “Give him time. By the start of the school year, I guarantee he’ll be three times as large as he is now.”

Ichigo tries to imagine it, but a knock at the door distracts him. Stars flashing over the doorway as the great metal bolt slides open, Professor Dumbledore walks in with his hands hidden in the boundless folds of his turquoise robes. The determination on his expression morphs into surprise when he spots the hatchling blubbering at the three members of his staff; smiling widely, the Headmaster gives a merry little laugh as he strides over.

“Headmaster, is there something I can help you with?” Tōshirō asks, scarcely lifting his gaze from his newborn familiar. Hyorinmaru has curled up in the wizard’s lap and is inspecting the wintry shine to his wings with a gaze of fascination. He doesn’t react when Professor Dumbledore steps close, but the Headmaster hardly seems fazed at being ignored by the dragon.

“No, no, forgive me for intruding,” says the Headmaster, eyes gleaming. “I was simply hoping to for Hagrid to run an errand for me, but I can see that you’re all terribly busy at the moment.”

The gamekeeper rushes to deny the suggestion, but the way his eyes linger on Hyorinmaru’s slender form betrayals his desires.

Ichigo almost leaves the conversation at that, preferring to watch Hyorinmaru tumble about, but there’s something in Professor Dumbledore’s smile that makes him reconsider. The Headmaster doesn’t look disappointed by Hagrid’s afternoon plans – in fact, he’s gazing upon the hatchling fondly, delighted that Tōshirō and Hyorinmaru have finally been united – but rather he seems to hold himself with worry. It’s a subtle stance, one Ichigo doubts he’s even seeing, but Professor Dumbledore looks thrown-off now that his plans to talk to Hagrid have been foiled. Sighing, the Muggle Studies professor figures not saying anything would be rude (tempting as it is), so he sets down his tea and says:

“Can I do anything?

The Headmaster blinks, momentarily surprised at the offer. Ichigo feels like he’s just signed a legally binding contract with chaos when the elderly wizard turns towards him, inspecting him with tiny, cobalt eyes of a mastermind.

“Hmm,” says the Headmaster, a sound that translates as _oh no_ in Ichigo’s ears. “I suppose… yes… yes my boy, if you’d be so kind, I would be grateful if you could do a little something for me. Do not worry about it Hagrid,” he adds when the great gamekeeper goes to interrupt. “Professor Kurosaki is more than up to the task.”

Hyorinmaru growls. Ichigo is certain the hatchling is questioning the validity of that statement.

After thanking his friend for lunch and saying goodbye to Hagrid, Ichigo follows the Headmaster down the Astronomy tower stairs. It’s too late to back out of whatever Professor Dumbledore wants him to do now, but he doubts it’s anything dangerous, illegal, or in any way, shape, or form questionable, even with a voice cackling _this man formed the Order_ in the back of his mind.

They make it all of the way to the bottom of the tower before any more explanation is provided. Reaching into his pockets and pulling out a small, archaic envelope, Professor Dumbledore frowns at the loopy ink printed on the front before handing it over to Ichigo.

Taking it with a confused expression, Ichigo flips it over, wondering what he’s supposed to do with it. Just a simple golden-tinted envelope, it hardly seems to be weighted with anything valuable. The Hogwarts crest has been etched onto the back – the four House mascots form the shield of the school, and beneath the tiny details is the banner, the words almost illegible with its size. A dark red blob of wax seals the envelope – messily, as if in a rush – and Ichigo swipes his thumb over the surface to check if it’s dry.

“It appears the young Harry Potter hasn’t been receiving his acceptance letters,” says the Headmaster as a way of explanation, sighing sadly.

Noting the emphasise on _letters_ but not questioning it, Ichigo flips the envelope over to read the address as he realises what his errand is to be. The boy’s location has been a well-kept secret over the years, but there it is, as plain as day, staring up at him with a delicate emerald ink:

  
Mr. H. Potter  
The Floor  
Hut-on-the-Rock  
The Sea

“Err,” he says, his expression flattening. Professor Dumbledore’s smile falters at his hesitation, and Ichigo is quick to assure that playing delivery-boy really isn’t a problem (though it is), and that ensuring that Harry Potter receives his Hogwarts’ letter is a good idea (which it is, but really, why does it need to be delivered personally?)

The Headmaster pats him on the shoulder, cutting off the last part of Ichigo’s confusion. “Thank you my dear boy, I knew I could count on you! Could you possibly deliver this as soon as possible and report back to me once you’re sure Mr Potter and his family are… hmm… _happy_ with the arrangements?”

Dumbly, Ichigo nods. There’s nothing else to do, and he stands there stupefied as the Headmaster skips off down the corridor without saying any more. The Japanese professor watches him go, and then glances down at the envelope again, turning it over in his hand. Nothing happens beyond a growing sense of unease building up inside of his chest.

“Hut-on-the-rock… the sea…?” Ichigo reads aloud, scowling. He has _definitely_ just landed himself in a whole heap of trouble, he can tell – the vague instructions and the even vaguer address are big enough clues. “What _sea_?”

There is nobody around to answer.

Ichigo stuffs the envelope into his pocket and hopes it isn’t a bad omen for the rest of the school year.

 

 

Despite the letter clearly announcing the _hut-on-the-rock_ to be his destination, Ichigo isn’t prepared to face the rickety building quaking in the evening storm. The hut – and it’s more of a shed than a hut – is probably no bigger than the warm, food-filled Astronomy classroom that Ichigo has left. Seeming to be constructed by little more than desperation and moronic intent, gales batter the flimsy house. The jagged edges of the rock side scarcely shelter the building from the open sea torment, and as Ichigo approaches with his arms holding himself together and warming charms spelled onto his ears, he doubts that anybody is stupid enough to live in such a place. His coat trailing regret behind him as it whips about in the hurricane, the wizard peers blearily through the onslaught of rain and darkness. The front door to the hut is barely more than a plank of wood, and Ichigo scrabbles around for a place to knock that won’t splinter his fingers.

Thunder and lightning crashes above him, illuminating his miserable silhouette against the quaking building. Windows rattle in the cold and Ichigo curses them, knocking again. A threatening rumble of the sky and the howl of the wind slamming against the rocks drown out the sound. It’s too dark to see if there’s another entrance, and even though he could cast a _Lumos_ to find one, Ichigo really doesn’t putting that much effort in, so instead he retrieves his wand and settles for the unlocking charm.

“ _Alohomora_ ,” he hisses, feeling only slightly bad.

Inside, the hut looks smaller. To the left is a crumbling fireplace – unlit, despite the atrocious weather – and opposite it sits a lonely sofa, caked in a thick layer of cobwebs and substituting dust for cushions. On the sofa is a bulky figure covered by a duvet, snoring loud enough to challenge the wind – a boy, Ichigo notices as he steps inside and nearly trips over a pile of coats – and on the floor between the sofa and the fireplace is another child, protected from the cold by a single, fraying blanket. Scowling, Ichigo closes the door as quietly as he can – it slams shut with a terrible _whoosh_ of the gales, and both of the sleeping children jump awake at the sound, the one on the sofa almost toppling off. Ichigo cringes as somebody roars in the back room – the only other room, by the looks of it – and tries not to look threatening even as lightning flashes behind him, alighting his shadow through the cracks of the windows.

The boy on the sofa starts to scream, scrabbling away. The skinny figure on the floor _oofs_ when the duvet flops from the chair and swallows him, but doesn’t join in with the hollering. From the far doorway a great rhino of a man lumbers into view, and Ichigo has lifted his hands in surrender even before he notices the rifle, ready to fire and swinging frantically in the man’s grip.

“Hey!” the wizard snaps, a burst of terror rising as the man stumbles into the room with the firearm, the two children still sitting directly before him. “Put the safety on before you shoot somebody’s head off, arsehole!”

“Who the devil are you?” the whale of a man shouts, ignoring Ichigo’s demand. “How did you get here?”

The boy on the sofa has finally stopped screaming, and now the only sound to fill the terrible silence is the storm outside, tempesting against the hut. Slowly, Ichigo lowers his hands in a calming motion, eyeing the rifle. If it fires, he doesn’t know if his spell work will be quick enough to prevent any damage, and finding out is the last thing he wants.

“Ichigo Kurosaki. Usually I’m a professor, but right now, I’m a post-man. I’m only here to deliver a letter to Harry Potter, and then I’ll be on my way…?”

The woman using the rifle-wielding man as a shield gasps and mutters something with a high-pitched, nasally voice that Ichigo doesn’t catch over the sound of the man’s next shout:

“A letter?” he booms, his round face reddening with fury as another crash of lightning sparks across the room. “I DON’T WANT ANY MORE RUDDY LETTERS IN THIS HOUSE, YOU HEAR ME?”

“I can hear you,” Ichigo deadpans with a sigh.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say when the woman latches onto her husband’s t-shirt. “ _Vernon_ –” she gasps, and it’s the only warning Ichigo gets before the beefy man is lifting the rifle in a clumsy arch and –

 “ _Protego_!”

The shield charm explodes across the room, wild green light blinding the two boys protected beneath it, and the shot _thunders_ from the firearm, _pings_ against the spell, and ricochets off through the ceiling with a _crack_ , scattering dust, wood, and gunpowder across the floor. There is more screaming, yelling, and swearing from the occupants of the hut, but Ichigo is already acting before Vernon can reload and fire again.

“ _Engorgio_!”

The firearm swells, expanding at an unstoppable rate in the man’s hands. He shrieks and drops it, scrambling away from it, and Ichigo casts the vanishing charm to rid the hut of the smoking weapon. As soon as the shield charm fizzles away with the impending danger, the larger boy heaves a great sob and throws himself over the sofa, running to his parents. The other boy stares up at Ichigo with wondrous green eyes, but the professor has more important things to worry about as the now rifle-less man shakes an angry fist and looks ready to explode.

“How dare you! You – you’re not – your kind isn’t welcome here! Get out! OUT!”

Ichigo credits the man for his daring as he levels his wand, glaring furiously across the hut. Vernon squeaks at the sight of it but holds his ground, even with his wife screaming bloody murder in his ear. Their son, tucked tightly between them, is wearing a fearful expression of pure confusion, but he doesn’t question his parents’ behaviour or the danger that Ichigo can pose.

And it’s then that Ichigo realises why he feels so alienated in this strange house with this strange, rifle-wielding family.

“You’re _Muggles_ ,” he breathes, cursing himself and cursing Professor Dumbledore. A forewarning about this ridiculous situation would have been lovely, but supposes he shouldn’t have expected anything different from the scheming Headmaster. Yet although he knows the laws, Ichigo refuses to lower his wand. Muggle or no, a man who is willing to fire a rifle in a tiny room is not one to be defenceless against.

“Don’t call us that _hideous_ word,” snaps the wife, scrunching up her pointed nose. “You are trespassing in our house, and Vernon has already told you that you’re not welcome –”

“Why not?” Ichigo argues, thundering booming behind him. “You already know what a _muggle_ is, so you must know why I’m here. Just give me a couple of minutes to talk to Harry –”

“I DON’T WANT ONE OF _THOSE_ IN MY HOUSE!” Vernon roars, just as a quiet mutter of _talk to me?_ rises up from the floor.

Ichigo drops his narrowed gaze to the sofa, taking in the child’s crooked glasses and large, wondering eyes, and smooths his fierce expression into something softer when he spots the lightning scar in the glow of moonlight streaming in. When he looks up again the parents both shrink away; pushing down a grumble, Ichigo alights the fireplace with a quick spell and sees Harry’s jaw drop in the corner of his eye.

“Well,” says the professor, glaring at the Muggles. “Tough luck, you’ve got two of them now. Now I’m not here to hurt anybody, but if you even _think_ of firing any more weapons, I _will_ be forced to defend myself, yeah? I’m here to deliver a letter and make sure that –”

_Mr Potter and his family are… hmm… happy with the arrangements?_

Ichigo falters, the Headmaster’s words echoing in his head. “You’re Harry’s _family_. Jesus – what’s with all the fuss? Surely you’ve known for _years_ that Harry is a –?”

“DON’T SAY IT!”

“– wizard?”

The fire crackles. Ichigo stares between Harry’s quiet confusion and the horror-struck expressions upon the family’s faces and abruptly understands the situation that Professor Dumbledore has thrown him into.

“You can’t take him,” the woman whispers, her voice like a scream in the silence.

Lost for words, Ichigo ignores her. She’s right – he legally _cannot_ remove Harry from this house and dump him in the middle of Scotland without his family’s consent – but for the time being Ichigo doesn’t care. Keeping his wand out, he pulls the letter from his pocket and kneels down next to the saviour of the Wizarding World. Harry takes it from him gingerly and reads the address for a long, tense moment, before sliding out the letter with shaking hands.

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…?” the boy mutters, and Ichigo’s heart breaks – just a little bit – because he recognises the lost tone as his own; an eleven year old realising for the first time that even family can keep secrets.

Harry shakes his head even as he continues through the letter. “I think you’ve got the wrong person sir,” he says politely. “There’s no way I can be a…”

“A wizard?” Ichigo prompts. “Are you sure? Doesn’t it explain a lot of things? Your parents were magical after all, and Hogwarts has accepted you as her student, so you must have some ability.”

“My… parents had magic?”

Silently, Ichigo seethes. In the doorway, Vernon whispers to his wife, but neither dare raise their voices to ignite Ichigo’s fury.

“They did. They could do amazing things, you know. Things that you’ll be able to do, one day. Hogwarts is a school for all magical students, no matter their background. I’m one of the professors there, and I know you’ll fit right in.”

Assuming his family let him out of the house, of course, but Ichigo is certain he could overcome that hurdle with a little bit of stubbornness and a whole lot of emotions he would rather not inflict upon the Muggle family.

Harry blinks at his letter and then lifts a young gaze to Ichigo. “Can you tell me about them?”

He doesn’t mean the classes, that’s for sure. Ichigo glances up at Vernon, Petunia, and their son still quivering in the doorway, and then back at Harry’s bright demeanour – the revelation has inspired him, it seems, and now he clings to it with a hopeful expression.

Ichigo’s protective nature can’t say _no_.

“Sure,” he says to the kid, getting comfortable on the floor. “I don’t know much though, but…”

“That’s okay,” says Harry, as if learning about his parents from a complete stranger who has gained his knowledge through textbooks is _really_ okay. “I don’t mind.”

Ichigo had uttered the same lie when asking about his mother. He’d said it again when questioning the secrets his father had kept.

On the other side of the room, Vernon looks like he’s about to shout something. The professor silences him with a glare and encourages Harry closer. When the kid is perched next to him on the floor, Ichigo lays his coat over the boy’s tiny shoulders, thinking of his sisters.

Eleven is too young for this.

“You might as well go back to sleep,” he informs the Muggles with a stern tone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Although he doesn’t intend for it to before he utters them, Ichigo realises that the words are a promise that means more than just this single moment. Beside him, Harry smooths out his letter with an unnatural tenderness, and reads its secrets for a second time. Ichigo lifts his arm to stretch across the boy’s shoulders, and vows for it to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the story!
> 
> Apologies for all those who are disappointed I'm not developing into Harry's first year - this story was started to explore Ichigo's first year of teaching, and that's what I've written (even if it did end up wayyy longer than I expected). Going into the canon HP plot would require huge amounts of planning and work, and I lose interest when I write multi-chaptered stories, so I figured it best to end this sooner rather than later and save you all from reading an incomplete, abandoned work.
> 
> In saying that though, I do have a habit of starting series against my better judgement, so who know where this may go? :)
> 
> Please leave a review as you go! I'd love to hear what you thought :D


End file.
